


midnight

by elliptical, vulpis



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone-centric, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpis/pseuds/vulpis
Summary: People in New York City keep dying under mysterious circumstances.  The No-Majs say it's some sort of anemic illness; wizards know differently.Tina Goldstein is pretty sure her boss is a vampire.  It's kind of hard to investigate, though, when he's the right hand of the President and she's suspended.Newt Scamander is only supposed to be in the city for a day, but his travel plans abruptly change when he follows a half-starved vampire boy into a dark alley.  Not the best of decisions, but hey, he's only trying to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow. i've lost control of my life.  
> this is an AU that accidentally turned into a story with plot. mostly written by elliptical, but a Fair Amount of newt's dialogue is written by vulpis, and the AU is created between us
> 
>  **warnings:** emotional manipulation up the wazoo, canon-typical abuse, credence needing a hug.
> 
> i'm not even trying to adhere to the canon universe at this point. i do what i want  
> things will be explained as time goes on

Credence expects a lot of things from the captive wizard in the chair - hostility, fear, rage, condescension. His hands are tied behind his back, his suitcase confiscated, and his clothes in disarray, which are all things that generally agitate people. But when Mr. Graves pulls the hood off his head, he blinks and looks around with a mildly perplexed expression, like someone only just realizing they got on the wrong train.

“My case,” he says.

The room is bare and windowless, white paint on the walls chipping to reveal the gray plaster underneath. It’s what Credence thinks prison interrogation rooms probably look like, all lifeless and empty and dim. There’s no blood on the walls or the floor, because Mr. Graves never kills anyone in here - or at least if he does, he scrubs the evidence well enough it can’t be detected.

Mr. Graves looks the part of a police interrogator, all snappy clothes and postured intimidation - which is to be expected, both because he’s been at this for five hundred years and because that’s his wizard job. He’s not playing the wizard part now, though. Now he’s all vampire, his fangs out and poking over his bottom lip to make a point. He leans over the wizard and says, “Your case.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s been confiscated.”

Something that’s _almost_ panic flashes across the wizard’s face. “Not damaged, though?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah.” He swallows, and Credence tries not to focus on the motion of his throat or think about the blood pulsing under his skin. It’s hard. The scent hangs heavy in the air despite the fact that the wizard has no open wounds, and the pull toward him is a tightening string. Credence turns away and breathes through his mouth, his shoulders hunched, trying not to be obvious about how _hungry_ he is.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” the wizard says, with an air of patience that would be more convincing if his heart wasn’t thudding so fast. “I’m only passing through New York on my way to Arizona, you see-”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Mr. Graves interrupts. “We’re vampires.”

“Well, yes, I assumed that part was obvious.” The wizard sighs. “I meant no harm when I pursued you” - and Credence suddenly realizes he’s the one being addressed. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. You looked ill - I thought maybe I could help. I should have realized that would come off as hostile, especially considering… I am sorry.”

He sounds genuine about it, too, which makes things worse. Credence isn’t always the best at reading people’s intentions, but he is tuned to their emotions. The slightest catches of irritation, fear, anger; they all make shivers run down his spine. This doesn’t sound like begging (which he also knows well, if for different reasons). It sounds like the earnestness of someone trying to right a wrong for no reason except their own guilt.

Credence’s hands curl into loose fists, but he doesn’t look up.

“You _are_ ill, aren’t you?” the wizard presses, softer. “Please - I might be able to help, I’ve come across a fair few vampires during my travels. And then you can let me go. Nothing more than a misunderstanding, and really, I hate tangling with law enforcement, if that's what you're worried about. I’ll be out of the city before tomorrow.”

Credence's stomach hurts, partially from hunger and partially from the squirming discomfort he doesn’t want to name. He’d known the wizard was following him, and he _had_ assumed malicious intent, but that wasn’t what got the man into this predicament. It’s nothing more than a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mr. Graves is never going to let him go. With what Credence has learned about wizards, he wasn’t expecting an apology; he wasn’t even expecting to be spoken to, and he wishes they could have taken someone easier to hate. 

The smell of blood is so strong. He’s so hungry.

At least Mr. Graves also seems nonplussed. “I’m not sure you understand the gravity of the situation you’re in,” he says, with the air of someone explaining arithmetic to a particularly slow child.

“Well, I’ve been kidnapped by vampires. My case is missing. It might be offensive to assume you intend to feed on me - would that be offensive? It’s probably offensive. Either way, the whole thing is less than ideal. It cuts something awful into my travel schedule. Hence why I’d appreciate it if we could just… handwave this whole excursion.”

“That,” Mr. Graves says, “is not going to happen.”

The wizard sighs. “It was worth a try. I really do need my case, though.”

“What’s so important about your case?”

“It has my work in it.”

“You’ve been kidnapped by vampires, and you’re worried about your work,” Mr. Graves says. Credence thinks he sounds faintly impressed, if exasperated.

“Ah - I’m a Magizoologist, you see. I travel the world learning about magical creatures. I’m writing a book about the ones I’ve met. And there are more than a few that I’ve rescued from poachers or unhappy life circumstances, and I do my best to relocate them to safer places, or to give them a home should they want it. My research is in my case.”

“Your research,” Mr. Graves repeats.

“Yes. I’m afraid there’s enchantments on it to keep anyone who hasn’t been invited from seeing the contents - _anyone_ , not just vampires,” he adds hastily, like they’re going to bristle. “But, ah. My research involves some live specimens, and they’ll need to be fed. So if you intend to keep me here, I’d appreciate it if you could give me the case. And if you intend to kill me - well, I’d prefer you didn’t kill me, but at least let me make arrangements before you do.”

“Live specimens.” Mr. Graves is doing a lot of repeating, which makes Credence feel better about the fact that he can barely understand a word the wizard is saying. “In a suitcase.”

“It’s more convenient to carry than a trunk.”

“What sort of live specimens?”

“Oh, you know. Small ones. Since it’s a suitcase.” The wizard is an atrocious liar, and he seems to know it, because he sidles away from this conversation tack and addresses Credence. “How long has it been since you last fed?”

Credence finally sneaks another glance up, and his stomach hurts again. The man is so _normal_ looking, reddish hair and freckles and an openly earnest face. He reminds Credence of the stray puppies he used to pet when he was meant to be handing out flyers.

“He’s fine,” Mr. Graves says, sparing Credence the burden of answering.

The wizard looks deeply offended. For a moment, Credence thinks it’s because of Mr. Graves questioning his judgment, but then he says, “Are you two family? Anyone with eyes can see he’s starving. What’s your diet like? Have you been drinking from the vein, or have you been feeding on packaged blood? Human or animal? I mean, I’m _theorizing_ human since you’ve kidnapped me, but I may be being offensive again. Have you been eating any human food as a supplement? What about vitamins? How often do you-”

That’s a lot of questions in the space of maybe two breaths. Credence is pretty sure he shouldn’t talk to the wizard, but he sorts through them in his mind regardless, only jolted out of the ponderings by the sound of a sharp smack. Mr. Graves has slapped the wizard across the cheek to shut him up, once, methodical, businesslike. Despite knowing it was necessary, Credence flinches back, pressing himself into the corner of the room and screwing his eyes shut. Now is an inconvenient time to panic. He shouldn't show weakness in front of a sworn enemy, regardless of whether it's a puppy-like sworn enemy. But he’s not great at watching violence, especially when it comes from Mr. Graves, who always promises never to lay a hand on him but _could_ if he really wanted to. He doesn’t want to be in this room, watching this happen; he doesn’t want to be part of this at all.

Mr. Graves doesn’t acknowledge his distress, too focused on the wizard. “You are not in a position to ask questions,” he says. His razor-edged voice makes Credence cringe all over again, muscles knotting. “He is _fine._ ”

The wizard is quiet for a few moments. “My mistake,” he says finally. “May I have my case?”

“No,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence is not sure what possesses him to speak up. Maybe the pain in his body echoing empathy. He doesn’t know what sorts of animals the wizard has, and they must be small to fit in a suitcase, probably not even sentient. They might be half-dead from being dragged around in such a cramped space. They might be miserable. It would be just like a wizard not to consider the needs of the creatures he’s researching - but Credence knows the pain of starving in the dark, and he doesn’t wish it on anything.

“Maybe he could have it if someone watches,” he offers, his head ducked, not looking at either of them. “Then he can’t - can’t do anything magic, but if he’s telling the truth, the animals won’t die.”

Silence. Credence can’t read past his own panicked tension, so he raises his head just enough to study Mr. Graves’ face. The expression he finds is not the anger he expects; it’s a strange mix of bewilderment and what Credence thinks - hopes - is tenderness.

“Fine,” Mr. Graves finally says with a dismissive wave. “What do I care?”

The wizard slumps with relief, uncannily like someone who’s just been spared a beating (another image Credence knows well, wishes he didn’t). “Thank you."

“I’m a busy man.” Mr. Graves sighs. “I won’t put up with your doddering around. And if you do try anything, I’ll kill you. Without hesitation.”

“That seems fair.” The wizard nods. “It wouldn’t have to be you, you know, watching me. Since you’re a busy man. It could just as easily be done by your… assistant? Son?”

Mr. Graves doesn’t confirm or deny their familial relationship, which is both relieving and curious, since Credence has no idea how he mentally defines their bond. His face softens, and he’s not looking at the wizard when he says, “Would you like that, Credence?”

Some of the coiled-up tension in Credence’s body eases. Slap aside, Mr. Graves is the same as he’s always been, gentle and kind and caring. It's fine. It'll be fine. There's a reason for all of this, and he's always been able to survive unpleasantness. He's survived much worse than this.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Credence mumbles softly. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. I won’t let you down.”

Mr. Graves is still halfway across the room, but Credence feels like he’s wrapped up in his warm embrace as he says, “I know you won’t. I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tina goldstein is having a bad day. bad week. bad few months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wild plot appears

Tina Goldstein is pretty sure her boss is a vampire.

This is a suspicion she’s had for a while, but it’s climbing higher and higher up her current list of stresses. She tends to keep them sorted by priority, and then sort them again by what she can _fix_. Unfortunately, most of her current stresses are in the ‘out of her control’ category, which is her least favorite.

1\. The suspension. That sure happened. She’s gotten over her anger at herself for the impulsivity of the hex, and now it’s melting into anger at everything else - that _woman_ , MACUSA’s staunch insistence that they can’t interfere with No-Maj affairs, her boss’ total disregard for her concern that _the boy is clearly a vampire and has no idea._ Which, if Percival Graves is a vampire, makes sense.

2\. Queenie’s increasing unexplained absences from home, which wouldn’t be concerning - Queenie is a grown woman who knows how to have fun, and Tina isn’t her keeper - except that she’s _reasonably_ sure they’re to spend time with that No-Maj she met after temple services a few weeks back, and _honestly._

3\. It’s hard to get your job back when you can’t investigate crimes to prove your own worth, on account of being suspended from your actual job.

4\. Percival Graves is probably a vampire.

5\. Which brings up all sorts of questions about who else knows Percival Graves is probably a vampire, because surely Tina isn’t the only one who’s figured it out, but also America is such a mess she can’t see how he’s managed to become the President’s right-hand man if it’s not a secret.

6\. Credence Barebone is most _definitely_ a vampire. And no one seems to care.

She’s taking a walk to clear her head, trying to decide on a course of action. Mainly, _Should I mention to someone that Percival Graves is probably a vampire?_ coupled with _How am I going to get my job back?_ and _Queenie can’t pay the apartment rent on just her salary, I’ll need to start looking into other jobs soon if I can’t..._

But her train of thought halts abruptly when she sees the quarantine banner outside the Second Salem church. Her heart drops into her stomach. The recent attacks on the city have been kept off her list of worries mostly out of spite, _I’ll investigate once they start paying me again,_ except that she’s curious enough to know the basics. Random killings of No-Majs peppering different neighborhoods without rhyme or reason, no traces of magic on the bodies but a magical creature clearly involved. Blood drained. The working theory is a Dark wizard using them for sacrifice, even though they have all the markings of vampire-wrought death. And it sure is strange that there isn’t a city-wide manhunt for vampires, since Obliviating the No-Majs into thinking the deaths are anemia sickness uses so many resources, and the whole business severely threatens the International Statute of Secrecy. Something’s very wrong with the entire situation, but Tina can’t untangle the threads beyond _Percival Graves is probably a vampire._

(She can picture herself in the Auror meetings, if she still had her job. How she’d lay her palms flat on the table and stare defiantly into Mr. Graves’ eyes, speaking directly to him as she says, “We need to put more effort into tracking spells and body examination. Whoever’s doing this is completely out of control, or they’re using a vampire to do their bidding. Either way, we need a stronger task force. We can’t keep letting No-Majs die.”)

(In actuality, she’d bring up the possibility of vampires, and then a senior Auror would launch into a condescending speech about how no vampire in recorded history has ever killed this many people undetected, and how clearly a Dark wizard is behind it, and how her theories are so _appreciated_ but also so idiotic. She’s not sure if she’s actually idiotic or if the entire law enforcement department is woefully incompetent, but she likes to fantasize about solving crimes. Proving everyone wrong.)

Nothing about the church in front of her fits the pleasure of mental fantasy. Cold that has nothing to do with the chilly air steals into her bones, and she ducks under the sign and steps inside before she’s fully conscious of what she’s doing. The interior is intact, almost eerily so; the church has always seemed devoid of life no matter how many children flit through, and now it’s a tomb. The walls judge.

Her feet carry her up the stairs. She moves, trancelike, the analytical part of her mind taking in small details. Broken banister. Shifted wall hangings. Whatever moved through here moved through fast, no pause for breath. She draws her wand when there’s movement, but it’s only the Aurors investigating the scene. They haven’t moved the body yet.

Mary Lou Barebone lays in the hallway, her fingers outstretched toward nothing, her neck twisted at an awful angle. Dark blood paints the gaping gash in her throat, pooled underneath her. There’s not enough, not for a normal throat slitting - some of her blood is _missing._

_Oh, Credence, no._

One of the Aurors looks up, frowns. “You’re not supposed to be here, Miss Goldstein. You’re suspended.”

“The children,” she says, breathless. “Her children - are they -”

“There’s one other body. A woman, early twenties? We found a living girl, maybe ten - she’s been Obliviated, I assume she’ll be sent to a No-Maj orphanage.”

Tina’s whole body is electricity. Her ears buzz. The smell - the body _smells_ , fresh bodies don’t -

“Did you find anyone else?” she asks. “Any witnesses? Besides the girl? Did the girl say anything useful?”

“She was insensible, useless, been hiding up here for days. The attack happened at least five days ago. No magical traces, just like the rest of them. One of the local orphan children found the body coming up here. Apparently the church takes to feeding them. Anyway, that child was Obliviated as well, and - this is _not your case,_ you’re suspended, you need to leave so we can investigate.”

She opens her mouth, closes it. _Credence._ Even if she wasn’t suspended, there’s no way she’d be allowed to investigate this particular murder, considering the conflicts of interest. She clenches her fists, resists the urge to kick something. The Auror side of her itches to spill everything she knows, but the rest of her falters. There's so much wrong here -

She swallows, takes one last look at the body, and turns away.

She makes it all the way out of the church and down the street before she retches, leaning heavily against a brick wall. _Credence, no, no, no-_

Credence Barebone can’t possibly be behind all the deaths, and yet dizziness crawls up her spine, threatens to make her heave again. She sits down where she is because she can’t walk back to the apartment like this, ignoring the curious stares of passersby, gasping for breath.

“It’s not our responsibility,” Graves told her when she went to him the first time, imperious and impatient.

“If the boy _is_ a vampire then we have a responsibility to help him, he’s still a magical being even if he isn’t protected under Wizarding law, and the Statute of Secrecy-”

“If the boy is a vampire, he’s not protected under Wizarding law,” Graves told her, with a look both stern and full of meaning. “How do you propose we help him, Miss Goldstein? Bring him in for questioning? There isn’t a handbook we can give him. If he’s found a way to sate himself without breaking Wizarding law or exposing himself, there’s no need to intervene. If he _has_ broken Wizarding law, he’ll be put to death. As you seem fond of him, this is my professional guidance: put it out of your mind.”

“He’s _not_ sating himself, though, he’s starving, and if she knows what he is - it warrants an investigation, at least! It’s technically magical jurisdiction if he’s a vampire, which means we can intervene to have him and his sisters placed in a more stable home - we could even have a wizard foster him if we find anyone willing, or look for another vampire who-”

“Miss Goldstein,” Graves interrupted. “He’s more than twenty years old. Old enough to care for himself. If he truly is a vampire, he must be finding sustenance. A vampire wouldn’t be able to stay hidden if they spent over twenty years without blood.”

“Then,” she said, slow, “someone must be feeding him. But not enough to fully help. _That_ doesn’t interest you?”

“Quite frankly, no. I try to stay out of the business of their kind. Makes everything less messy.”

“It’s a potentially dangerous situation. This is what we’re trained to _do,_ we have an obligation - if I’m wrong, there’s no harm done, and if I’m right then-”

“No,” Graves said, and that was the end of that. “Get out of my office.”

That was when she’d started to suspect that something deeper was going on, because Percival Graves had absolutely no reason to refuse the request. If anything, Percival Graves - compulsively interested in law and order, peacekeeping, a job well done - should have started an investigation immediately. And yet…

She should have kept probing on the inside. She should have garnered support from the other Aurors, she should have gone to the President, she should have - what could she have done differently? She’d given up on the system and taken matters into her own hands, hovering around the church and the children, trying to get close enough to Credence to find out how much he knew about himself. And that had all fallen apart when she couldn’t stay calm long enough to just _not hex_ -

Mary Lou Barebone is dead.

Credence Barebone is a vampire.

He can’t be behind all of the deaths, not singlehandedly, but if she brings what she knows to the Aurors now, he’ll almost certainly be convicted of his mother's murder. He’ll almost certainly be scapegoated for all of the similar attacks. He’ll be put to death immediately or worse, and no one will ever look deeper into the anemia sickness or the strangeness plaguing the New York City Aurors. Something is very, very wrong, and Tina needs to find out what it is, and she has no idea who she can trust. Certainly not the system. Certainly not Graves.

Graves. Graves _knew,_ Tina _told him_ \- Graves knows about Credence. She needs to talk to him, except he’s never been a forthcoming person, and if he’s at the center of some great conspiracy then she might unwittingly throw herself into danger. If there’s not something deeper at play, Graves will come forward with the information she gave him months ago. He’ll finally start the manhunt. He won’t mention that he avoided a perfectly warranted investigation for the sake of his own pride, but he’ll start doing his damn job. And if he doesn’t…

Tina gets to her feet, still shaking. Either the Aurors seek Credence out under Graves’ orders, rooting through the city until they kill a boy who was only ever guilty of hunger; or they don’t, and the darkness in the Auror office itself runs deeper than she ever imagined.

She takes a step, and then another, steadying herself as she reroutes her plans.

She needs to find Credence Barebone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt attempts to befriend credence, with questionable results

Newt Scamander’s travels are not going as planned.

The good news is, he’s an adaptable sort of man. The best plan is one that can be easily changed, and he’s no stranger to research taking him down paths he might never have explored otherwise. He’s also no stranger to dangerous situations. A large number of the creatures in his case are classed with varying danger warnings (even though Newt often disagrees with people about what constitutes ‘dangerous’ in the first place). He’s been bitten, stung, clawed, and fed on more times than he can count. He’s nearly lost limbs by approaching startled animals too quickly. He’s been hexed, jinxed, and injured his fair share of times by poachers, who are far more evil and dangerous than any creature he’s ever encountered. He can handle a little travel interruption.

The bad news is, he’s not sure how long this vampire business will take, and exchanging a train ticket involves so much more social interaction than he can usually manage.

A hundred countries, thousands of magical creatures, dozens of malicious wizards, seven arrests, and only now has Newt Scamander finally met his match: boredom.

For whatever reason (working theory: the sheer drama of it all), Newt’s cell resembles the dungeons at Hogwarts. It’s windowless, damp, and utterly dull. The bars on the door are rusted through. The floor is devoid of identifying markers, smooth stone save the foul-smelling hole in the corner. There is a threadbare blanket. End points of interest.

If Newt had been in a different line of work, he might be out of here already. But his prowess with wandless magic tends to be healing-related rather than ripping-doors-off-hinges related, and besides, he doesn’t know where his case is. He needs the case safe and sound before he tries anyone’s patience. Plus, his magic feels weaker than it usually does, fuzzier, which makes no sense, because he hasn’t been bitten.

He’s not worried about himself, exactly - either he’ll get out of here or he won’t. He is worried about the creatures, but dwelling on that only means suffering twice. To pass the time, he formulates theories about his own capture like he’s drafting a research paper. People and animals very rarely act without motivation. The problem with people is that their motivations tend to be much more complex and enigmatic than Newt can decipher.

Fact: If the vampires wanted him dead, he’d be dead. It stands to reason that they want him alive.

Fact: Judging by the smell in the corner of the room, he is not the first person to be held in this cell.

Fact: There is a lot of blood in his body.

Fact: They know he’s a wizard. He can’t Apparate out of the room, try as he might. It’s possible the cell itself is charmed against magic users; at least that would explain the fuzziness.

That last fact is the most curious. Are they planning to ransom him? Or did he just frighten the younger one into an impulsive kidnapping? Theoretically speaking, it's less risky to kidnap a Muggle than a wizard if they _really_ need to feed on someone. That’s assuming they have no regard for Wizarding law, which, considering the current state of affairs, seems like a solid theory.

Lord, he hopes they don’t try to ask Theseus for ransom money. It’s not that he wouldn’t pay so much as that he’d somehow manage to fly across the entire ocean in a night, track them down, rip them to shreds, and drag Newt out for coffee like nothing happened. Theseus is wonderful, and heroic, and altogether more supportive of Newt’s endeavors than most people would be. But he’s also not the most patient of brothers.

It takes maybe fifteen minutes to sort all of his knowledge and theories, and then he’s back to soul-crushing, mind numbing boredom. At least the other times he was held in jail, there were other people to talk to, even if he didn’t speak the language. _And_ usually there were jailers to ramble to about his work. Here, there’s just himself. He doesn’t even have a book. He would _die_ for a book.

Perhaps a hundred years pass (four hours, he’s not even hungry yet) before someone descends the steps. Newt perks up immediately, further still when he realizes it’s the vampire boy from before. The dim light from the stairs makes it hard to see, but he recognizes the hunched posture. Credence, that’s his name - Newt made a point of filing it away, since he’s atrocious with names in general. Credence kneels down outside the cell and slides a tray of food and a flask through the thin gap underneath the bars.

Newt takes the flask first, sniffs at it, smells only water. If it’s drugged, the drugs are still probably better than dehydration, and there’s very little rationale for poison. He takes a few swigs and then looks up. Credence is standing, hovering outside like he’s not sure what to do with himself, and the sliver of his face Newt can see in the light is as taut with hunger as ever.

“You aren’t going to come in?” Newt asks, gentle.

Credence looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“All right,” Newt says, taking another sip of water. “Any particular reason why not?”

“I’m not going to spoonfeed you.”

“That wasn’t what I was implying, but alright.” Newt keeps his attention on the tray rather than on Credence, the same way he might edge sideways toward a skittish beast.

Credence swallows, dry and painful enough that Newt’s own throat aches in sympathy. “I need to stay here while you eat. So I can take the tray back.”

“That’s understandable.” Newt picks at what looks like a severely overcooked pork chop. “Do you happen to know where my case is? Right now I’m more interested in that than food, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ll bring it down. Tomorrow.” Credence’s voice is halting, stilted. “So you can feed your animals.”

Probably best not to press him on the timing. Newt continues to pay attention to the tray, deciding to take the vampire at his word. “You don’t have to keep standing like that, you know,” he says, popping the hunk of dry pork chop in his mouth. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever tasted, but then, he’s eaten a lot of questionable things.

Credence continues hovering for a whole half minute before sinking down against the door, a hand pressed over his mouth and nose.

Newt bites down on an exasperated sigh. He’d hoped that Credence would have at least fed within the four hours he’s spent in the cell, but a vampire with healthy eating habits would never look as ill as Credence does. His skin is so sallow it’s nearly gray, pupils constantly blown wide, muscles coiled with unspent hunting tension. It took less than half a second to identify him as a vampire in the New York City street crowd. In retrospect, Newt probably should not have walked up to him and asked when he’d last fed, and also probably should not have chased him when he ran, but his _intentions_ were good.

His intentions are still good, regardless of the circumstances. He picks apart what’s left of the pork chop slowly, so that he can prolong their time together. “Credence,” he says, watching for a reaction as carefully as he can without seeming like he’s watching for a reaction. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Since you fed?”

Credence doesn’t move.

Ever-so-slowly, Newt scoots forward, stretching an arm wrist-up through the bars.

Credence’s head moves with almost mechanical precision, chin jerking down as he stares at Newt’s veins. He uncovers his mouth, nose still pinched tightly, and says, “I’ll kill you.” It’s nearly a whine.

Newt fixes him with the same stern stare he uses to make unruly dragons settle down, though it might be lost on Credence, who has eyes only for Newt’s arm. “Give me a bit of credit, Credence. I'm not suicidal.”

“Mr. Graves seems to think otherwise.”

“Then he’s an idiot. I wouldn’t do anything to endanger my beasts without a solid contingency plan.”

Credence’s head doesn’t move again, but his eyes do flick up, glittering as they fix sidelong on Newt’s face. “You followed me,” he points out. “ _Something_ isn’t right in your head.”

Newt can’t keep back the exasperated sigh this time. Instead he lifts his arm higher, toward Credence’s mouth, opening his fingers. “And you’re obviously not being fed enough,” he says. “Something isn’t right _here_. Go ahead.”

Credence makes a sound like a soft gasp, his jaw twitching. Then he dives like a bird of prey, sinking his teeth into Newt’s skin with the ferocity of an agitated hippogriff. For a moment, Newt worries - he’s rather fond of having his tendons and bones intact - but Credence makes no effort to injure him further once the initial bite is over. He just closes his eyes and drinks.

There’s something beautiful in it, Newt thinks. Not beautiful like a sunset or a warm day, but beautiful like the snarls of nature untouched by human hands, the unforgiving expanses of land where people can’t survive. The desperation he could do without - Credence wouldn’t be so frantic if he wasn’t starving - but overall he’s far less frightened of the display than fascinated by it. A few idle notes flit through his mind, things he’ll need to scrawl later. The pull of the mouth so the vampire can sate himself faster than the human heart pumps. The singleminded focus on the prey. The utter stillness save the motions of his throat. The numbness creeping up Newt’s arm, since the pain of a bite makes the blood pump faster, but numbness makes it harder to fight back. He really ought to see if he can collect samples of venom to study -

Newt only comes back to himself when he realizes the reason he can’t form coherent theses is because he’s getting lightheaded. When a firm, “Credence,” gets no response, he reaches through the bars with his free hand and thumps the vampire on the nose like he’s whapping a dugbog with a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet.

That jars him for a solid two seconds, long enough for Newt to tug his arm back into the cell. The fact that he can’t study his own bite mark is almost mournful, but not bleeding in a vampire dungeon matters more, so he gathers up the remaining scraps of his magic to knit the wound together. By the time he’s finished, there isn’t even a scar, nothing but a faint smearing of blood to indicate there was ever a wound at all. He's exhausted.

Credence, meanwhile, throws himself against the door in an attempt to get back to his meal. He doesn’t appear to have the presence of mind to unlock the cell, or perhaps just doesn't have the key. Newt has no doubt that without the bars between them, Credence wouldn’t be able to avoid pinning him down and tearing his throat out, not in this state. Still, he’s not frightened. Tired, woozy, a little nauseous. Not frightened.

Credence calms eventually. He’s trying to be subtle about the way he’s wiping his chin and then licking the blood off his hand, so Newt politely averts his gaze and doesn’t mention it.

Newt wets the napkin on the tray with a splash of water from the flask, swiping away the small smear of blood on his skin. Then he tosses it to Credence (it’s probably not a good idea to put himself close enough to bite again, yet). “You can clean up with this.”

Credence’s breathing is ragged, but at least it’s not the same dehydrated panting from earlier. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he says.

Newt drains what’s left of the flask and shovels the remaining food on the tray into his mouth, mostly for the sake of not fainting. “Don’t bother to apologize, if you’re about to. I told you to.”

“You should - you should drink water, you probably need water.”

Newt shakes the empty flask in answer, sliding that and the tray back under the bars.

“Right. Right, I…” Credence pulls himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily, like a Muggle folding under the influence of alcohol. “I’ll get more, I…”

“Maybe you should sit for a few more moments,” Newt says, not unkindly.

Any desire Credence might have to argue melts away as he sways again. He sinks down, resting his forehead on his knees.

Newt opens his mouth to speak - _there’s no shame in it, and I’m alive, look, no harm done_ \- but Credence speaks first.

“He’s going to be able to smell you on me,” he whispers, his voice small.

For all that he doesn’t understand conversational nuances, Newt doesn’t need to ask who he means. The hold Graves has on Credence makes his stomach twist, and he’s not sure how deep it runs, but it must be impossibly corrupt if Graves controls when he _eats_. Wary and miserable as Credence is right now, Newt doesn’t try to offer comfort or probe deeper. Instead, he tries to help.

“There’s no marks,” he says, showing his healed wrist.

“He’ll be able to _tell_.”

“How, exactly?” Newt’s brows draw together. “If it _is_ only smell that you're concerned about, and not overall health, you can enter my case - this should be sufficient permission - as there's an atomizer of scent-neutralizing spray near the sink. It's in the opaque blue glass bottle, without any label on it. For breath, put mint in the mortar and pestle near the atomizer- the _small_ wooden one, not any of the others; I only use that one for items that are safe for consumption by humans- and crush it until it's bruised and wilted. Then add in a small bit of sugar- it's in the left cabinet above the sink, lowest shelf, a crystalline container etched in ancient Greek, yes it _is_ sugar, it would be pointless to lie about that- only a pinch or two, beat that to a pulp, then dump the mixture into your hand or something of the like and add one spray of the liquid in the atomizer, no more, and then consume it. Ordinarily, the spray is just used like cologne.”

Credence gives him another look like he’s lost his mind. “Wh - I. _What?_ ”

Newt sighs, impatient. He’d have more misgivings about offering a potentially hostile vampire entry to the case without him there, except that most of his creatures have ample hiding places, and those that don’t are more than capable of self defense. “ _Must_ I repeat myself?”

“What do you mean, the sink?”

“There’s rather a lot of things in the case.”

“Poison things.”

“Only if you mix them improperly. Those were very clear instructions!”

Credence shakes his head, supporting himself on the bars as he stands. “I think I’d take my chances with Mr. Graves above your case.”

Newt can’t help his utter indignation. “Really?”

Credence just shrugs one shoulder. Despite the indignation, and despite the other’s obvious fear, Newt can’t help being pleased by the shift in his demeanor. It’s slight, but the coiled hunting tension is gone. The only tension left is from nervousness.

“I _can_ repeat it, if you’d like,” Newt offers.

Credence won’t look at him. “I’ll get you more water,” he says, taking the tray and the flask under his arm, and then he flees up the stairs so fast his form blurs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> graves is the worst person alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember that warning about emotional manipulation. that warning about emotional manipulation is super relevant for this chapter  
> graves is horrible. this is not healthy

Credence is guzzling water straight from the kitchen tap when the door swings open. He smacks his head against the faucet in his haste to stand up, pain reverberating through his skull, ears ringing.

“I leave you alone for two hours and come back to this,” Mr. Graves says.

Water isn’t the same as blood, never has been, but sometimes drinking it tricks Credence’s body into feeling less sick. He curls his fingers around the edge of the counter and shuts his eyes, resigned. Mr. Graves doesn’t understand the sheer miracle inherent in Credence still being here at all. The smell of the wizard’s blood is still all over him, and he knows he looks exactly the same way he does every time this happens, wild-eyed and disheveled and monstrous.

_You have the devil in you, Credence._

Mr. Graves takes his time about shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up, the silence lengthening until Credence can’t stand it anymore. He turns around, pressing his back to the counter instead, his hands automatically reaching for a belt he no longer wears. Not finding it should be a relieving reminder of his own freedom. Instead it makes things worse. At least beatings are a routine he understands - cohabitation with Mr. Graves is still new enough that everything is a potential threat.

Mr. Graves crosses the room, tilting Credence's chin up with a hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. “There’s blood on your chin,” he says.

Of course there is. Credence hasn’t looked in a mirror since he staggered upstairs just a few minutes earlier; his first priority was to drown himself with enough water that he wouldn’t be able to think about feeding. He wants to run, but instead he shuts his eyes again, his body tensing up in preparation for a blow that doesn't land.

Instead, Mr. Graves releases him and clicks his tongue once, more disappointed than furious. “Is the body still downstairs?”

And - oh. He doesn’t have the full story, of course he doesn’t, because not once has Credence ever managed not to ruin what he touches. _You have the devil in you._

“I - I didn’t -”

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, less patiently, “is the body still there or not?”

“Didn’t… kill.”

“What?”

“I didn’t. Didn’t kill him. He’s still alive.”

Mr. Graves pauses. “And still downstairs?”

“I didn’t let him out.”

“But you attacked him. And didn’t kill him.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. “I think we’d better sit down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Credence settles on the couch in the living room, staring at his hands as he recounts the tale. He doesn’t omit any detail save the strange offer to help him hide the smell, and subsequently the strange details about the case. Sitting beside him, Graves is still enough that Credence can’t tell what he’s thinking, which makes him even more nervous than before. At some point, looking at his own hands makes him start thinking about the wizard’s veins again, so he focuses on a forbidding portrait of one of Mr. Graves’ “ancestors” (it’s Mr. Graves himself, a few centuries back) like that’ll make him feel more at ease.

Mr. Graves has a lot of money, which makes sense, considering he’s been such an important part of the Wizarding community for such a long time. Anyone would accrue wealth having lived for half a millennium. That’s how he can afford an entire building in the middle of New York City, and afford for it to be redone with the luxuries of indoor plumbing, and afford some ridiculously lavish furniture. Some of it is magic too, Credence knows - charms to keep dust from settling, to keep pipes from corroding, to keep warm water available at all times and wallpaper from yellowing. For all he knows, Mr. Graves has been enjoying these non-magical luxuries since before non-magical people figured out how to make them work with science. He ought to ask, someday, about the layers upon layers of enchantments built up - the glamours that make the outside look like a ruin or invisible entirely depending upon who views it, the pieces of history folded atop one another like coats of paint… But now isn’t the time. Credence is perfectly aware he’s only thinking about magic because that’s the fastest way to distract himself from self-inflicted horror.

After his stuttered explanation, he goes quiet save a few monosyllabic answers - no, the wizard hadn’t left the cell; no, Credence hadn’t opened the door; yes, he’d tried to attack again, but the bars had held; no, the wizard hadn’t inflicted any injury. Mr. Graves sniffs at Credence like he’s double checking for the scent of blood. Then, to Credence’s great surprise, he wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m very proud of you,” he says, and Credence melts entirely, sagging boneless against Mr. Graves’ chest. To humans he’s cold, but Credence is cold enough all the time that Mr. Graves feels more like a warm hearth. By contrast, the wizard’s heat had been open flame.

He nestles himself against Mr. Graves like he’s trying to burrow into a hiding place, longing for the contact to continue, pathetically grateful when Mr. Graves strokes his hair. A tiny sob catches in his throat.

“Easy now,” Mr. Graves murmurs. “Easy, shh, shh.”

This is a different kind of hunger, and it aches worse than the bloodlust. Credence never wants more than this, the simple comfort of being held, but he _always_ wants this the same way he always wants blood. It’s sick, selfish, the way he acts like he’s somehow _entitled_ to comfort, after everything he’s done, everything he is -

“The Aurors found your foster mother,” Mr. Graves says, which brings it all rushing back like a dam breaking. “And your sister.”

Credence shudders, knotting his fingers up in Mr. Graves’ shirt. He can’t think about it - he can’t - the _blood_ , oh God in heaven help him, she was going to hit Modesty with his belt and the devil reared up and he couldn’t - hadn’t been able to - and the snapshots glitter clearer in his mind than photos, brighter than watercolor paintings, the red of the blood and Chastity had been in the way and he never asked what happened to Modesty, he never thought, oh God oh God there’s always been so much and it’s all his fault -

Mr. Graves should push him away, but instead he grips Credence tighter, the hand in his hair pressing his face into his shoulder. Credence shudders again, violently.

He’d wanted the police to find him, except he knew he’d probably just kill the police too. He’d wanted the wizards and witches to find him instead, the ones Mr. Graves had told him about, using the magic he’d proved when he healed Credence’s wounds with nothing more than a touch. He’d wanted them to lock him somewhere he couldn’t escape, or kill him outright, if only to stop him from waking up with blood smeared on his mouth and blurry memories of breaking. He’d wanted them to _stop_ him, and he’d wanted to stop himself, since the beginning he’d only ever wanted to stop himself -

And Mr. Graves had found him instead, still with blood smeared over his clothes, fangs all the way out, sobbing into his hands. _Help me, help me, help me,_ and Mr. Graves, who’d helped him feed before, who’d given him everything he had, all but picked him up and carried him home.

_Help me, help me, help me._

Credence sobs, and once the tears start he can’t stop them, and he shakes apart in Mr. Graves’ arms. And the whole time there’s that contact, soft, warm, and all he ever wanted, all he ever wanted -

“Easy, easy, easy,” Mr. Graves says. “Shh, easy. I’ve been taking care of some of the paperwork. People are going to be suspicious, Credence, they’re going to wonder - I had at least one witch wondering about you even before all this happened. Look at me, Credence. What do you want me to do?”

Credence can’t look. He keeps his face pressed against Mr. Graves’ shoulder, fighting to get himself back under control. The wizards, he’s been told, can do much worse than kill him. They can peel his body apart, yank his fangs, bleed him dry, make him so thirsty he loses all sense of self. They can torture him with magic. Graves told him about a foreign wizard prison guarded by soul-sucking demons who make people relive their worst memories over, and over, and over -

Credence doesn’t doubt any of it. Why shouldn’t they torture him? He doesn’t even know how many lives he’s destroyed, because he fades when the devil comes out. Non-magical people would see him executed, and wizards enforce a special brand of cruelty that even non-magical people can’t match. The only one who’s ever really helped is Mr. Graves, and that’s because he’s the same sort of creature as Credence on top of his magic. He’s the only other person who’s ever understood.

Credence deserves any torture they order to pay for his sins, but knowing he deserves it and _wanting_ it are two different things. Even after ripping into the wizard downstairs he’s still hungry, and he’s so frightened, he’s so frightened, he’s always been so frightened.

“Help me,” he whispers.

Mr. Graves nods, cups the back of Credence's neck with one hand. With the other he pulls the collar of his shirt aside, and Credence’s teeth sink into his shoulder.

\---

In truth, Credence forgets about the wizard downstairs until the next day, when the sight of the suitcase reminds him. Mr. Graves is at work, since he spends most of his time working (cleaning up Credence’s messes), so Credence fills a jug with dull tap water and shovels some scraps from the modern refrigerator onto a plate and races downstairs with the case in hand. He’s relieved to hear the wizard’s heart beating, and finds him awake, leaning against the wall, pale but not yet dead.

“Took a little while about getting that extra water, I see,” he says, with a curve to his mouth to indicate he’s only teasing. “Unless my perception of time really is that atrociously skewed.”

Credence unlocks the cell and steps inside. He sort of expects the wizard to attack him, so he keeps his guard up as he sets the suitcase down, laying the plate and jug on its side like a table.

The wizard’s movements are slow, the shadows under his eyes almost as deep as Credence’s own. If Credence bites him again now, he’ll die. That’s an absolute certainty. But the wizard doesn’t even look concerned.

“My name is Newt,” he says. “Newt Scamander. I realized I never introduced myself properly to you, and I’ve been kicking myself over it. Seems odd for me to have something to call you without doing you the same courtesy.”

Credence should back out of the cell to let him eat, but he’ll just have to reenter when it’s time to feed the animals, which seems like a silly dance. He sinks down against the opposite wall instead, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“I hope you didn’t get in terrible trouble.” Absurdly, Newt looks more worried about Credence than he is about himself, though he punctuates the sentence by draining half the jug of water in a dozen long gulps. “I really didn’t intend to cause you harm. But I’ve been turning it over in my mind, and I suppose if you’re not comfortable drinking from the vein, I shouldn’t have tempted you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re… sorry?” Credence blinks.

“I keep being more harmful than helpful, I’m afraid. I really don’t mean to be. These things just… tend to happen, where I’m concerned.”

Credence isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

“...Did you get in terrible trouble?”

He shrugs one shoulder, shifting uncomfortably. Newt leans forward as he refolds his arms, some new expression on his face that Credence can’t name.

“May I see your hands, Credence?” Newt asks, offering his own. His palms are up like yesterday, though this time it seems more like a gesture of peace than an offering. In his earlier haze, Credence had been too dizzy to pay attention to anything except the blue lines under his skin, but now he notices the scars. There’s no mark where Credence bit down, but Newt’s arms are full of other long-healed scratch marks and bites and tears, some thin and white, others dark purple and splotchy. Surprise kicks Credence in the chest. For some reason, he’d figured all wizards would have perfect skin.

If it wasn’t for Newt’s scars, Credence would never offer his own hands. But as things stand, he scoots forward and lays them on top of Newt’s, palms down. Newt’s skin isn’t as hot as yesterday, which means his body isn’t retaining heat the way it should, which is an unsurprising side effect of the blood loss. It _is_ concerning, though, if only because it’s easier to catch illness or freeze down here than in most other places.

The skin-on-skin contact doesn’t flip Credence immediately into hunter mode, which is also new. He can picture it - surging forward, ripping into Newt’s throat, leaving the empty body crumpled on the stone - but he shoves the image out of his mind as quickly as it appears. No. No, find a distraction -

The most potent distraction is his own scars, except he doesn’t like thinking about those, since they’re reminders of his own failure. His hands have been more obviously injured than the whole of Newt’s arms. Three of his fingers won’t straighten all the way anymore after breaking and never healing right. He can’t make tight fists because of damaged tendons. His skin is more scar tissue than anything else.

Newt lets out a very slow breath, looking up. Credence gets the sense he’s trying to make eye contact, which he’s also noticed Newt doesn’t do often, but he can’t bear to see the disgust, so he studies Newt’s scars instead.

“Did Mr. Graves do this to you?” Newt asks, and the combined question and tone startle Credence into meeting his gaze.

Newt only holds the contact for half a second before his eyes flick away, but - there’s no disgust in his face at all. If anything, he looks even kinder and sadder than usual, which is all wrong. He has no idea. He doesn’t _know._

“Mr. Graves would never,” Credence says, shaking his head.

Newt doesn’t pull back. Gently, ever-so-gently, he cups Credence’s hands with his own, rubbing his thumbs over the scars on the backs of Credence’s palms. “But someone did?”

Credence swallows.

“Are you injured anywhere, Credence?” Newt asks, still with that same softness. “Besides the hunger pains, I mean. Any unhealed injuries?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, shakes his head again.

Newt hesitates. “Is…” he starts, and then breaks off. Takes a breath and tries again. “Is Mr. Graves protecting you from whoever did this?”

Credence goes silent.

Newt doesn’t press. “All right,” he says. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just let me finish eating, and I’ll show you the inside of my case. I think you’ll like my creatures. All I ask is that you leave the skittish ones alone and be gentle with those who are comfortable with contact. If you hurt them-”

Credence braces himself for a threat, but Newt breaks off, the corners of his mouth tugging down. “They put a great deal of trust in me, you see,” he says, and his voice cracks, which is somehow a thousand times worse than a threat would be. “It matters very much to me that they not be harmed. It matters more to me than my own life. It’s all right if you make mistakes around them - goodness knows I’ve scared or hurt my fair share of creatures by accident - but please don’t harm them on purpose. Even the ones you may consider ugly or frightening are still sentient beings who deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt your animals,” Credence says. “Not on purpose, anyway. I don’t… I like animals, usually.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And, Credence?”

He braces himself again. “What?”

“I don’t mean to offend - I’m not even certain you’re the one who makes the food - but if you or Mr. Graves intend to take my blood in the future, I’ll need to eat more than this. Assuming you want me alive, of course. I’m not particularly preferential about food, though when it comes to blood loss, iron and protein are both helpful.”

Newt is only trying to save himself, so Credence doesn’t point out the absurdity of him giving advice on how to properly keep him captive. He just ducks his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Mr. Graves doesn’t keep a lot of human food. I’ll ask him to get some, if you make me a list.”

“I can do that.” Newt pats his hand, and then picks up his plate. “No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Credence stares at him. “I’m a vampire. You’re in a cell. I _eat_ you.”

Newt waves a hand. “Arbitrary details. Anyway, just give me a few moments and I'll show you the case. I think you'll enjoy it.”

Credence is never going to understand him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> credence sees the inside of newt's case. it does not go well

Newt’s case is not a suitcase.

Mr. Graves had opened it earlier and found nothing but normal luggage, pawing through to see what lay underneath. And then he’d muttered something about enchantments, and waved his wand over the case and muttered nonsense incantations - revealing charms, he said - and then Credence had distracted him by tripping over a chair, and he’d left the case alone.

Credence was not expecting this.

He follows Newt into what looks like an abyss despite the instincts screaming at him to back up, because he’s messed up enough already, and Mr. Graves will be furious if Credence doesn’t keep an eye on Newt. He’s pleasantly surprised to find a metal staircase underneath him, and he’s made it all the way down the steps and into the small wooden shack before he starts to panic.

_If he goes back up the steps and shuts the lid and leaves you in here Mr. Graves won’t be able to find you even if he kills him and you’ll be trapped in here forever you’ll starve you’ll be buried alive no one will get you out_

But Newt is standing at a small counter, opening cupboards and sifting through brightly colored little glass bottles, and he doesn’t seem intent on running.

“What is this place?” Credence asks, faint.

Newt spares him a single shoulder-thrown glance, and then goes back to bottle sorting. “My suitcase?”

“It’s bigger on the inside.”

“Undetectable Extension Charm. Well, several. Maybe more than several, I - oh, damn it to hell. I forgot to ask. How bad is your light sensitivity? We met in the day, but it was overcast.”

Credence shrugs. The slivers of light peeking through the slats in the wooden workshop look suspiciously like sunshine, but he’s not sure how Newt can have put _the sun_ inside his suitcase. “I don’t burst into flame,” he says.

“I am _aware_ vampires don’t burst into flame upon contact with sunlight, Credence,” Newt says, with a patient air that borders on condescending. “I meant, do you have an aversion to light? Does sunshine cause you pain?”

“Humans don’t like to look at the sun,” Credence points out.

“Yes, but even if you don’t look _directly at the sun,_ does it pain you?”

“I… don’t know?”

“You don’t know? You’ve never been in direct sunlight?”

“No, I just - I usually hurt. It’s hard to tell what causes what, sometimes.”

Newt pauses. It’s less than a second, imperceptible to most, but Credence is tuned to body language, and he cringes automatically. Then Newt returns his attention to the bottles, his tone lighter. It’s the sort of tone Mr. Graves tends to use when he’s particularly frustrated, which makes Credence cringe again.

“Open that door there, won’t you?” he asks, gesturing to a wooden cupboard just outside his reach.

This tension is absurd. Credence is the one in control of the situation, not the other way around. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. “I’d better not,” he says. “If you’ve got an animal in there, it might bite me.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Newt abandons his bottles, crouching down and tugging the door open. Nothing bites him. Nothing stirs. Credence can’t see what’s inside, until Newt rises holding a package of -

Credence’s hunger flares like a caged thing, tearing at his throat.

“Take it,” Newt says, holding the blood out gingerly, an offering for a startled animal. “It was voluntarily donated and legally purchased, I swear. Licenses and bills of trade are underneath the tea kettle, if you want proof.”

Credence glances at the indicated tea kettle, which perches atop a frankly intimidating-looking stack of papers. He raises one eyebrow.

“I need to organize them,” Newt says, sheepish. “But they are in there! I swear.”

Credence takes the blood and sinks onto the ground, drawing his knees to his chest. Newt watches him for a few more moments and then turns his back; Credence can barely fathom the arrogance in someone turning their back to a feeding vampire, but he’s too distracted to be angry. The blood shimmers at him, black, scarlet where the dim workshop light reflects. He’s not so desperately ravenous after feeding on both Newt and Mr. Graves, but his insides are flame, and if he opens the package he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from following it with Newt’s throat.

“You’re far from the first blood drinking creature to come down here,” Newt says, misinterpreting Credence’s hesitance. “I keep a supply in cold storage for emergencies. It’s human. It won’t poison you.”

Credence squints at the cupboard the blood came out of. It doesn’t look anything like a modern refrigerator.

“Enchantments,” Newt explains, as though he knows exactly what Credence is wondering.

He’s so hungry.

He doesn’t have the control not to feed. It’ll either be this package or Newt or both. When the hunger gets like this, that’s usually when the blackouts happen. He’s dizzy. He doesn’t want to black out - if he kills Newt, he might be trapped in the case forever, and the coherence of that thought is what makes him bring the package to his lips. Mr. Graves will probably be less angry about him taking blood from a wizard than about him getting stuck forever in a magic suitcase.

He’s not sure how much pressure will make the package burst, so he opens it very gently with his fangs. The scent and the blooming taste over his tongue pull the rest of the cord, rip the hunter from dormancy. The package empties in seconds, and Credence desperately swipes his tongue over his lips, barely able to remember the satisfaction of feeding at all. A flattened container in a closed fist, the thrum of hundreds of different heartbeats, _so many creatures so much blood_ -

He presses his palms flat against the wooden floor and breathes. It’s the freshest air he’s ever tasted in his entire life, full of leaves and soft earth and what he’s pretty sure is animal dung. His forehead touches the slats. He is not going to kill Newt. He is not going to kill Newt. He is not going to kill Newt -

\- unless he has already, unless the feeding triggered a mini blackout. He pulls himself to his feet, relieved when he doesn’t scent fresh blood, and then realizes the workshop is empty.

Panic rips to life with the same vehemence as the hunger. He closes his eyes and scans for the most human-sounding heartbeat, and then he races out of the workshop and into the blinding sunlight, nearly slamming into Newt in his haste to get to him. Nearly. He skids to a stop at the last second, because if he bowls Newt over he really will kill him, and he _needs to get out of the case how did he end up in this position -_

“Credence,” Newt says with remarkable calm, even as his heart flutters faster, “do you need more? There’s more in storage. I’ll get it for you.”

Newt’s edges are blurry; Credence can’t see so well during the day. He wraps his arms around himself and hisses. “I thought you left me.”

“Well, yes, I assumed you wanted privacy-”

“I thought you left me!” Credence shouts.

Understanding crosses Newt’s fuzzy, too-bright face. “Oh - no, no, I wouldn’t. I can’t see how leaving you down here without warning would be an ideal situation for anyone involved.”

“You wouldn’t be dealing with me.”

“Yes, but you're far from difficult to converse with, and I’m not sure leaving a ravenous and frightened vampire in the company of my creatures would be a great idea,” Newt says. Credence bristles, but then he adds, “A lot of them startle easily, especially when they aren’t familiar with each other. You might get hurt.”

 _"I_ might - what does that _matter_ -”

“I suppose also, if I was thinking selfishly, as you seem to expect, leaving you here wouldn’t put me in good standing with Mr. Graves. Since I prefer your company to his, it makes sense not to do anything to endanger you.”

Something inside Credence wilts, crumples. It hurts like a fist squeezing his chest, but it also makes it easier to back away from Newt instead of pouncing, his shoulders hunching inward. “What do you _want_ from me?” he whispers.

“To help.”

“No.” Credence looks up, but the brilliant blue behind Newt is a knife in his skull, so he closes his eyes instead. “I mean, what do _you_ want.”

Newt pauses. “To… help?”

_"What do you want?"_

“You’re going to have to use different phrasing, Credence,” Newt says, the patient air back in his voice. “I’m sorry - it isn’t you, it’s me. I can’t understand what people mean half the time. Even when they put emphasis on different words.”

Credence bites down on his knuckle to stifle a snarl of frustration, flicking his tongue at the wound. “You want something,” he says. “From me. Something other than to help. I kidnapped you. I’m holding you hostage. You’re being kind. It doesn’t make sense, which means you want something.”

“Oh.” There’s a rustle of movement as Newt crouches down. “I think maybe there has been a fundamental misunderstanding about who I am as a person.”

Credence can’t hold it back; he snaps his teeth as he snarls, almost a scream. _“Tell me what you want!”_

“I want to treat you,” Newt says.

That takes some of the wind out of Credence’s sails. “Treat me?” he repeats, hating the confusion in his voice, hating how vulnerable it makes him sound. “Like a doctor?”

“In essence, yes.” Newt takes a deep breath. “I’d like for you to gain your health back.”

And there it is, familiar feeling, creeping through his chest and snuffing out all other emotion. Shame. Credence pulls himself to his feet, his jaw aching. “This is as healthy as I get.”

Newt straightens up as well, brushing himself off. His heart doesn’t change pace, but he doesn’t say anything for long enough that Credence opens his eyes again. He could swear he's being _studied._

“You are a _vampire,_ Credence,” Newt says, as though it’s some great revelation. “Whoever told you this is health was feeding you a crock of rotting drake excrement.”

“You don’t understand.” Credence turns away, edging back toward the shed. “I’m not like the others - like me. I’m sick. I can’t get full.”

There’s a blade in Newt’s voice when he replies, strained and buried, but present enough to freeze Credence in place. “Is that what you’ve been told?”

“You don’t understand,” he repeats. “Mr. Graves is - is helping me learn to control it.”

Newt crosses the space between them, raises a hand like he wants to rest it on Credence’s shoulder, hesitates. Thinks better of it. “I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he says, and Credence can tell he’s trying for gentleness, but he’s too frantic/angry/worried/desperate/??? to manage. “You can’t control it, not completely, and if you’ve been keeping yourself thirsty under the guise of _learning_ control, you are doing yourself _far_ more harm than good. Vampiric hunger is not the same as human hunger. While the appetite diminishes, it never fades entirely. The vampires that have no control can’t resist attacking even when the appetite is at its weakest, and even then, I-”

He breaks off, takes another deep breath. “I don’t believe they’re hopeless. I just believe they’ve been abandoned, and I won’t - I won’t tolerate it.”

 _Abandoned._ Maybe Credence would be better off if he’d been abandoned. But no, no - if his mother hadn’t locked him away, starved him, ripped him open, torn him to shreds - if she hadn’t perfected her own special brand of cruelty, Credence would have been found by the wizard police as a child. He would have bit some random passersby not knowing the difference, and the wizards would have tortured him. Which would have happened regardless, if Mr. Graves hadn’t decided to care for him, but she bought him time.

_Abandoned._

“I haven’t been abandoned,” Credence says. “I’m just sick. The light does hurt my eyes. I’m going back to the shed. Come back when you’ve finished feeding your animals.”

“Credence, if Mr. Graves-”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like - like what?”

Credence stops inching toward the shed, his body coiled. He’s pretty sure he could force himself to keep walking, but his grip on the monster is loose and he thinks it might hunt Newt down the way it hunted the senator who called him a freak, the way it hunted his mother. The monster is most feral when it consumes Credence’s fear and anger. He doesn’t want to kill Newt (doesn’t like Newt, doesn’t, just needs Newt to get out of the case), so he turns back around. Newt, standing right where Credence left him, looks genuinely baffled.

“Like you’re better than me,” he snarls. “Like - like I’m some pitiful animal you have to nurse back to health, like I’m - _you’re not better than us just because you’re a wizard."_

Newt remains baffled. “I… didn’t say… I was…?”

“You don’t have to! You’re so - so -” He searches for words, his fangs digging into his bottom lip, and comes up with one Mr. Graves taught him. Better than speaking in Bible verses, at least. “ _Entitled._ You’re so entitled, you think you’re better than us just because you have magic-”

“Credence-”

 _“STOP SAYING MY NAME!”_ he screams.

He has never screamed like that, at least not that he can remember. There’s a weird satisfaction in it, like a band around his chest loosening. Dead silence follows. He can’t quite bring himself to full regret - for the first time in months, there’s quiet inside him too, calm in the eye of a storm.

Newt’s heart is beating very fast. “I think it’s a good idea for you to go back to the shed,” he says, slow. “A lot of the creatures are going to be worried after that outburst. I don’t want you getting hurt. I’m very sorry, Cr - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The calm melts into an ache that eats like guilt. Credence curls his fingers, his shoulders stiff. No - _no,_ he is not going to feel guilty about yelling at an entitled wizard for being entitled and arrogant, there are _better things_ to feel guilty for -

Except then he’s thinking about the better things to feel guilty for, and that’s a bad idea too. He hunches over on himself and walks back to the shed, his motions jerky. Then he sits on the bottom of the staircase and buries his face in his hands.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tina and graves have a chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm taking a lot of liberties with the goldsteins and their knowledge of no-maj culture. mostly because i like writing the tina and queenie i _wanted_ to see more than i like adhering to canon

Tina knows she’s in trouble when the MACUSA messenger tells her Percival Graves wants to see her.

Insurmountable trouble, anyway. She’s been in trouble for a while. The problems just keep piling up, and even though she hopes the meeting will be Graves telling her that she was right about Credence and therefore will be getting her job back with a promotion, she’s pretty sure that’s a place reality and fantasy don’t meet. She makes sure her wand is in easy reach (as if she’s going to duel the Director of Magical Security), and then she makes her way to Graves’ office.

Her search for Credence has been largely unsuccessful thus far. If she had the department behind her, their magical resources, she thinks she could manage it - but she doesn’t, and so she can’t. It’s not like she’s had a long time to look. He hasn’t returned to the church, and with his sister Obliviated there’s very few leads to go on in order to ascertain his whereabouts. She’s checked some of the haunts where he used to pass out flyers, laying tracking spells over the streets, but so many people pass through New York and Credence is one drop in a pulsing tide.

She should have done something different.

Maybe she can do something different now. She walks into Graves’ office, where he sits with the calm he always does, and she steels herself. He inclines his head toward her and says, “Take a seat, Ms. Goldstein.”

She does. The chair before the desk is hard-backed and uncomfortable, designed for short meetings. Tina curls her hands around the narrow armrests.

“I owe you an apology,” Graves says.

Tina blinks. Maybe the meeting _is_ a dream come true. Wouldn’t that be a nice twist to conclude the past few rotten months?

“For what?” she asks.

“It seems Credence Barebone is a bigger problem than I previously anticipated.”

Her heart beats a little faster, but she schools her face into a mask of calm. “I saw that the Second Salem church was under quarantine. There was an attack?”

“I know you were on site, Ms. Goldstein. Let’s not play games with each other.” Graves folds his hands on the desk, and Tina could swear he looks _tired_. “You came to me with concerns that Mr. Barebone was a fledgling. I dismissed them out of hand. I should not have.”

“Well.” She clears her throat. “Thank you for the apology.”

“I need your help, Ms. Goldstein.”

Tina eyes him levelly. “With?”

“I need you to locate Mr. Barebone.”

She worries at the inside of her cheek, resists the urge to fidget. If Graves is going to be stone, so can she. “I’ve been searching for him already,” she confesses. “Ever since I found out what happened at the church. But I’d do better finding him if I had my job back. With Auror resources, we could-”

“You see, the problem, and the reason why I can only entrust you with this,” Graves interrupts, “is that I would rather not involve the Auror office. Not yet.”

That throws Tina off. Unbalanced, it’s a few seconds before she pulls together proper words. The conversation feels like a dance with steps she doesn’t know, and it makes her nervous. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned this to the other Aurors yet. I assumed you would have started a manhunt by now.”

“I want him brought in _alive."_ Graves doesn’t break eye contact with her. “I’d be a fool to trust an average Auror not to kill a rogue vampire. You, however - given your history with the boy, I doubt you want him to die. Regardless of him being a monster.”

“Why is it so important to you that he’s brought in alive?”

“Do you think he’s behind all of these killings, Ms. Goldstein?”

“No, of course not-”

“And how many people will believe he is, should he be killed and convicted with no trial?”

“These are things you can _explain_ to the Aurors who work for you,” she says impatiently. “I won’t be able to find him without resources, and might I remind you I don’t have an _income_ right now, so-”

“I have a second suspect in mind,” Graves says, interrupting what would have been an excellent quip. “It’s out of courtesy to you that I prioritize finding Mr. Barebone.”

“A second suspect? You think you know who’s behind all of this?”

“I do. Her name is Queenie Goldstein. You might have heard of her.”

Tina gapes, frozen, the world falling from under her. “No.”

“No? There’s some damning circumstantial evidence.” Graves opens a drawer in his desk and draws out a file, plopping it down. Queenie’s name is stamped across the top, and the sheaf of papers inside is thicker than the pad of Tina’s thumb. “An unregistered Legilimens, which is an interrogation-worthy infarction to begin with. A disturbing desire to consort with No-Majs. You’ll find MACUSA will let a fair amount of fraternizing slip by thanks to the legacies of your parents - did you never wonder why you were only suspended for so violently threatening the Statute of Secrecy? You should have seen time behind bars. And this insistence on religious practice around non-magic folk when there are perfectly good magical Jewish communities-”

“They’re our people!” Tina bursts out, shoving her chair back and standing. The fury is an unbridled piece of her, no room for rationality. Her hand is on the grip of her wand before she can think, though she doesn’t yet pull it out. “You’re going to sit there and tell me we can’t talk to other Jewish people because they don’t have _magic,_ like their affairs don’t still affect me and Queenie - we don’t get the luxury of hiding in plain sight and you _dare_ to tell me -”

The tip of Graves’ wand prods under her chin, dangerous as a sword. He drew and pointed it at her throat without even looking up from the file, his body angled across the desk. “Queenie Goldstein is carrying on a relationship with a No-Maj,” he continues, as though he hasn’t been interrupted, as though his wand isn’t a fatal threat between them. “Plenty of unexplained absences for which she has no alibi. She’s done enough to warrant prison time without mentioning the killings. And an unregistered Legilimens who insists on fraternizing with the No-Maj community, well. That’s far more burdensome to the Statute of Secrecy than an errant hex, wouldn’t you say? One might argue she wants to break the barriers entirely. Perhaps she’d be willing to sacrifice dozens, hundreds of lives to do so. That’s powerful Dark magic.”

Tina trembles, but she still leans forward. The wand digs into her skin until it nearly draws blood, a dare. “I think, if you were so worried about my sister, you would have arrested her already.”

“It’s important to gather all information before acting. Consider all of a situation’s angles. For example, the level to which _you_ might be working with her.” Graves draws his wand back, tucking it away and offering a bland smile. “So you see, I think it’s in both of our best interests if you find Credence Barebone. If you arrest him, he’ll be able to tell us who’s behind all this. And if it happens not to be your sister, lucky for you.”

“I think,” Tina says, reckless and daring and high on her anger, “that you already know where Credence Barebone is.”

Graves arches one eyebrow. “If I did, why would I not have him arrested myself?”

“Because,” she says, “I think you’re protecting him. Because you’re a vampire.”

The truth out in the open between them. Count the seconds, shuddered breaths. Tina keeps her fingers curled around her wand, painfully aware that even if she manages to draw first, she has no recourse. There’s no way out.

“I’m an upstanding member of this community, Ms. Goldstein,” Graves says, uninterestedly rearranging his sleeves. “You, on the other hand - well. I think you’d better do as I say.”

\---

Queenie enters the apartment to find Tina haphazardly packing, objects flying through the air and landing in open suitcases. They refuse to lie flat, so mostly it’s a few towering piles of stuff combined with Tina’s frustrated yelling. A plate stops midair and drops onto the ground, shattered glass spraying in every direction.

Fortunately, Queenie is in Tina’s head, which means Tina doesn’t have to explain the situation. She just listens to Queenie’s soft murmur of, “Oh, honey,” and then she stops trying to do magic and buries her face in Queenie’s shoulder, letting out a low sob.

“It’s Graves,” she says, wrapping her arms around Queenie just to feel her warmth. “It’s Graves, it’s Graves - he’s the one doing all of this, I don’t know how or _why_ but it’s Graves, we have to leave-”

“Honey, honey, slow down,” Queenie says, and she is far too composed for a woman being scapegoated for dozes of counts of coldblooded murder. “Slow down, sit down.”

“We have to get out of the city, we have to-”

“We’re not running anywhere right now,” Queenie tells her firmly. “You’re sitting down, and you’re breathing. Then you’re going to tell me exactly what happened, because I’m only getting flashes, and they’re jumbled. Because you’re panicked. Sit down, Teenie, _breathe."_

Tina manages to heed her, sinking onto the one sofa cushion that hasn’t yet been upended. Explaining the situation to Queenie forces her to reorganize her thoughts. That, at least, calms her down. The Auror side of her takes over, examining the situation - this is what her job is, what she’s meant to do. If she had a meltdown every time there was a crisis, she’d never be able to act in the moment.

“Okay, that’s better,” Queenie says when Tina is breathing normally again. “Now, tell me what happened. Tell me like you’d tell someone who can’t see it.”

Tina gets through the explanation slowly, piecing together what she knows with what she suspects. Credence Barebone is a vampire. Percival Graves is a vampire. Credence Barebone killed his mother, and his older sister, but he can’t be responsible for all of the deaths in the city. If he is responsible somehow, he’s working at the whim of another person. If Credence is killed, he’ll be scapegoated for all of the murders, and no one will think more of it. If Credence is brought in alive, he’ll tell them what he knows. Percival Graves knows this. Percival Graves also knows Queenie isn’t the person behind this, but he’s been building a case against her - for what purpose, Tina has no idea. All of Graves’ actions thus far only benefit whoever’s hiding behind Credence, and he knows it.

Graves is hiding behind Credence. Tina doesn’t know _why._

“So it sounds to me,” Queenie says, “like Credence is the key to all of this. Graves knows you can’t find him without the Auror office behind you. What I want to know is why he asked you to look in the first place.”

“Maybe he’s trying to distract me.”

“Maybe. But you were already pretty distracted all on your own.” Queenie touches Tina’s cheek. “We can’t run away.”

“We can too.”

“Teenie, you _care_ for that boy. You always have. Can you really live with yourself if you run without trying to help him?”

Tina bites her lip.

“Of course you can’t.” Queenie pats her hand. “So we’re going to find him, and we’re going to keep him safe. And _then_ we’re going to figure out what to do, once we know more about what’s behind all this to begin with.”

Tina sighs. That’s logical enough, and she knows Queenie is right, but running just sounds _easier._ “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with you being in a relationship with a No-Maj, would it? This plan where we just _have_ to stay in New York?”

“Ah. Well.” Queenie flushes slightly. “I’ll introduce him to you!”

_"Queenie."_

“He _bakes."_

Tina just groans.

“I love him,” Queenie adds, softer, sincere.

Tina drags a hand down her face. “Okay,” she says finally. “You can introduce me to him. And we’ll find Credence. But if this No-Maj is not _every bit_ worth both your heart _and_ our lives, you are _never_ going to hear the end of it.”

Queenie smiles. “You’ll see.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt learns about credence's past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** there's all kinds of unpleasantness in this chapter. explicit discussion of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, some minor suicidal ideation on credence's part (though nothing graphic in that regard). we get to learn more about credence's misery, and it's as miserable as you'd expect. tread with caution.

It doesn’t take long to feed the creatures in the case, despite their numbers. They creep out of hiding almost as soon as Credence returns to the shed, and Newt moves between their habitats, chattering to them and putting up with varying disgruntled chittering. It’s his fault, he supposes, for being away so long without warning. His spirit isn't in the banter; the creatures can tell something's wrong. They climb, slither, and twine their varying ways around him, trying to cheer him up. His chest hurts a little. He’d really thought meeting them would make a difference to Credence, but he tends to overestimate people’s interest in creatures at large, and he’s not sure what he did to anger Credence so much in the first place.

Once he’s ensured all the beasts are well cared for, he returns to the shed (detaching Pickett from his pocket with about fifty insistences that he _really can’t take him out of the case this time_ ) with the Niffler in his arms. The sight of Credence hunched on the steps is one of the saddest things he’s ever seen. His chest aches worse, but he’s slow and careful about his approach, because he doesn't want to exacerbate the situation.

“You’re not wearing any jewelry, are you?” he asks. “A watch? Anything metal, shiny?”

Credence looks up, his brow furrowing. “No?”

Newt offers the Niffler. “Would you like to make a friend?”

Credence is giving him another one of those strange looks, but after a moment he reaches out. The Niffler snuffles around his face and shoulder in search of gold, finds nothing, and curls up against Credence’s chest like a cat. Credence stares down rather than at Newt, befuddled, but - Newt’s heart lifts a little - at least _slightly_ enraptured.

“What is it?” he asks.

“They’re called Nifflers. Harmless little creatures, but excellent at being pests. Got a penchant for shiny things like your magpies.”

Credence is even stiller than usual, holding the Niffler with the same cautious carefulness a human might cradle a newborn infant. “I’ll hurt it,” he says.

“Nonsense. Just don’t squeeze any harder than you would a cat or a dog, and you’ll do no harm.” Newt crouches down, and then decides the strain on his legs is too much, and sits crosslegged on the floor before Credence instead. “If you don’t mind me asking - and you don’t have to answer if you do mind - what did I do, earlier, to upset you?”

Credence hunches further.

“I don’t ask as - as any sort of accusation, I swear,” Newt rushes to explain. “It’s just, this is far from the first conversation I’ve bungled, and I doubt it’ll be the last, and I don’t - I can’t stop making mistakes if I don’t know what I did wrong. And I might be able to pick it all apart given time to ruminate, but more often than not I draw incorrect conclusions when I do that. I’m not always the best with people. That’s why most of my friends are in here.”

Credence focuses very hard on the Niffler, uncurling by inches. He gently ruffles the scruff of fur under the Niffler’s throat, and the Niffler rumbles appreciatively, snuggling closer to him.

“Wizards are - are cruel to vampires,” he says finally.

Newt nods, but he doesn’t speak, and after a short pause Credence continues. “You act like you don’t know that. Like - like we’re friends, and nothing is wrong, even though everything’s wrong between us. You’re _kind._ I don’t like it. I wish you’d be cruel.”

Now it’s Newt’s turn to frown. “You want me to hurt you?”

Credence shakes his head. “I want you to want to hurt me. Or at least act like it. It would make it easier.”

“Why?”

Credence’s chin ducks down to his chest, his eyes closing. The Niffler wriggles in his arms and climbs up to his shoulder, snuffling at his hair for potential snacks, and Credence is so still it’s like the Niffler isn’t there at all. “Either you really are as kind as you seem, and I’ve made an awful mistake,” he says, “or you can hide all of your cruelty, and I don’t like people who lie that well. I’d rather they told the truth.”

Newt puts his thoughts in order before he speaks. “Kindness has always gotten me farther than cruelty,” he says. “Most of my creatures, we don’t have all of this language to express ourselves, so all I have to communicate with them is kindness. A lot of them - especially the ones who’ve been abused - take a long time to trust me. I’ve seen firsthand the damage wizards do. Most of my life I’ve been trying to stop it, to put things right where I can. But I’ve been making mistakes around you. I shouldn’t have chased you when we first met. I shouldn’t have assumed I’m entitled to your time or company. I should have taken more time to consider how badly that would frighten you. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Credence. I don’t want to be cruel to you. I really do want to help, but when all the wizards you’ve met have been nothing but hideous, you have very little reason to trust that. I’d like to earn your trust, if you’d allow it.”

Credence’s mouth trembles, and he presses his lips into a thin line. “Things like that,” he says. “You say things like that, and it makes me wish you were someone else.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re going to die.”

Newt nods. “So is everyone, eventually.”

“You’re going to die _soon._ ”

“You don’t _have_ to kill me, you know.”

Credence shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t think I ever told you why I’m in America to begin with,” Newt says, resting his hands on his knees. “I met a Thunderbird in Egypt. I call him Frank. They’re magnificent creatures, thunderbirds - bigger than horses, and they create storms when they fly. They’re also exceedingly valuable to poachers. Frank was in Egypt because of traffickers - a Thunderbird’s native habitat is Arizona, you see. So once I got him away from the traffickers, I promised to take him home. I’ve made a lot of promises to all of the creatures here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t follow through with them.”

Credence looks up, his throat bobbing as he swallows, indifferent to the Niffler now attempting to climb onto his head. It’s such a silly picture that Newt has to stifle a grin despite the seriousness of their conversation.

“Then why aren’t you trying harder to escape?” he asks.

Newt bites the inside of his cheek. “I was in a similar situation to this one with the traffickers in Egypt. I could have left them well enough alone for the sake of my own safety. But then I would have been dooming Frank to suffering.” Hesitantly, he stretches a hand out. “I don’t want you to suffer, Credence.”

Credence stares at his outstretched hand like he’s not sure what to make of it. “You…” His frown deepens. “Want to… keep me? Like one of your creatures?”  
There’s the same woeful confusion in his voice as when he’d asked, _Treat me? Like a doctor?_ Newt wants to hold him forever, even knowing that’s probably a good way to get his throat torn out.

“I want to help you,” he says earnestly. “I’m not sure of all of the details of your situation, but I - I know the signs of someone who’s been badly abused, Credence. And that combined with your scarring and starvation - I want you to be in an environment where you can feed and be healthy. I want you to be safe. Not necessarily with me, not if you don’t want that, though I wouldn’t be opposed to you traveling with me if you do. I just want to help.”

Credence is making no move to shake or bite his hand, so Newt lets it drop. Credence does move eventually, though only to pick the Niffler out of the nest being made of his hair and cradle it again, gentle.

“My ma was the one who hurt my hands,” he says. “She’s gone now.”

Newt nods, and Credence adds, “I killed her.”

Newt nods again.

“I killed my sister too. And a lot of other people. I can’t remember how many. I can’t remember all of their faces. I just get so _hungry._ ” Credence frowns down at the Niffler in his arms. “So really I’m as big a monster as everyone thinks. It’s not like they think I’m bad and they’re wrong about it. I really am - I wanted the wizards to arrest me, but I wasn’t brave enough.”

Newt takes all of this in. It’s nothing he hasn’t already suspected, but the scope of it is on an unanticipated level. When he doesn’t speak immediately, Credence frowns harder, flinching like he expects a blow.

“You’re supposed to say something. Do something.”

“I have to admit, Credence, I’m a little bit puzzled.”

“Puzzled?”

“I’ve never heard of a vampire struggling so much with their hunger. That’s not to say I don’t believe you - the opposite, in fact. You don't strike me as the type to do people harm on purpose. It’s possible you are ill and not being treated for it as you should be.”

“I just.” Credence swallows. “I just told you I’m a murderer. And you’re puzzled.”

“Well, yes. I’d like to get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re supposed to be angry. Or - or scared.”

“I am not sure I’m ever going to feel what I’m ‘supposed’ to feel about these things,” Newt says.

“They had _lives,_ Newt. They all had lives and I ruined them.”

“Those aren’t my crimes to forgive.” Newt tries to meet Credence’s eyes, but the vampire is steadfastly avoiding his gaze, pretending to be fascinated by the Niffler’s bill. “I don’t - I don’t see how it helps anyone’s memory to be angry. You have done unforgivable things, yes, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of help. People who are still alive would be better served by you being healthy than you being ill. And the amount of blame you can assign someone who acts out of sickness - those kinds of moral quandaries aren’t mine, Credence. I never find any concrete answers to them. I only want to help.”

Credence swallows again. “Mr. Graves said they would kill me, if they arrested me. Was he wrong?”

Newt shakes his head.

“He said they might torture me before they did. Hurt me worse.”

“I can’t speak to how American law enforcement operates. Many of the customs here seem downright backward to me.”

“Would they do that where you’re from? Hurt me worse?”

Newt looks down, anxiously curling his hands in his lap, and gives a short nod. “Probably, yes.”

Credence lets out a slow breath. It’s awful, this truth stretched between them, but he looks strangely calmer than he has since Newt brought him down here. “Mr. Graves says I’m sick because of my ma. Because of what she did to me. I don’t know if I was born like this or made, but I’ve been this as long as I can remember. She knew. I bit her once, when I was very little, and…”

Newt winces as he trails off. “She broke your hands,” he says softly.

“Not my hands, that time. She locked me up in the cellar. She wouldn’t give me food. She gave me water after a few days, but she wouldn’t let me out until I proved I could - could be civilized.” Credence relays it conversationally, nothing but the twist of his mouth to indicate how badly the memories pain him. “She put garlic in most of my food after that. I had to eat it all. She didn’t give me meat, usually, but when she did she made sure to cook all the blood out of it. And she beat me when I slipped - when I snapped, or my teeth came out, or I tried to bite, or I strayed from God - She wasn’t a bad person. I think she thought she could make me human. I don’t think it mattered to her what it took to do that.” A small pause. “I think she would have killed me if I didn’t kill her first. I wish I hadn’t killed her first.”

Newt isn’t sure what to say. It occurs to him there’s nothing _to_ say - _I’m sorry_ always rings hollow when people talk of their pain, and anything else would be disingenuous. He doesn’t think Credence wants pity, anyway, judging by the matter-of-fact way he tells the tale. Credence expects Newt to empathize with his mother, the God-fearing woman who just had to torture her son. Credence is telling Newt to rob him of any illusions of empathy.

“There’s a creature down here called a Nundu,” Newt finally says, his voice quiet. “I doubt you’ve heard of them - I doubt most learned wizards outside of Africa have. They’re the most dangerous animals in the world. It takes a hundred wizards to stun one because of the sheer amount of magic inside them. Their breath tends to spread disease and their manes are poisoned. A Nundu can kill hundreds, thousands of people at once, not because they maliciously intend to, but because it’s their nature.

“The one down here - she was injured when I found her. I hope you won’t be offended if you don’t meet her for a while - she’s shy, and she needs to stay under cover of nightfall. I made the right choice by how I see things, although how I see things doesn’t always match up to how other people do. My brother says part of intelligence is knowing when something is a lost cause, but he’s a war hero and a bit of a cynic sometimes - all about how not every battle can be won, which I think is absurd. You only fail to win if you're unwilling to adjust your expectations. But the Nundu-

“Both her back legs were broken. She couldn’t hunt for herself or move very far at all, really. Someone would need to set the legs if she wanted to avoid dying, but I wasn’t about to gamble my life on that - I’m not _that_ foolish. I kept waiting until she fell asleep, and then I’d bring her meat so she wouldn’t starve. And eventually she became familiar enough with my scent that I could approach her when she was awake, and eventually she trusted me enough to let me treat her legs.

“I couldn’t heal them all the way automatically. Magic isn’t an exact science, and little enough is known about creatures and how to heal them. Plus the Nundu is powerful enough that one wizard’s spells can do precious little for it. But I was able to set her bones and clear them of infection, and to help her heal faster than she may have otherwise.

“All of this took much longer than it’s taking to tell the story, mind you. It was… ten months? Maybe closer to eleven, that I was with her. And once she healed enough to hunt for herself, I meant to leave her be, except she followed me. And wouldn’t stop following me. I’m afraid we accidentally became friends over all that time, so here she is. Even though she’s the most fearsome creature alive, even though she’s certainly harmed her fair share of humans, I found a friend in her. Many other creatures here are the same, though not to such an extreme degree. So you see, Credence, I don’t tend to operate with the same absolutes as other humans. Maybe that makes me wrong myself, but I think - I think kindness goes a long way. It’s easy to be kind and trusting to those who make it easy. It’s harder to do so when it’s more difficult, which is a shame, because the more difficult creatures tend to be those who need kindness the most.”

Credence is very quiet as Newt speaks, his fingertips idly ruffling up the Niffler’s fur, the only sound between Newt’s breaths being the Niffler’s unbroken chittering. As Newt’s tale draws to a close, the Niffler scampers out of Credence’s arms and dives at the pile of potion ingredients Newt has been amassing, breaking the moment’s spell.

“No!” Newt yelps, managing to grab the Niffler by a leg and haul it back. “You’re going to poison yourself, you silly-”

And he shuts the Niffler outside the shed with a grunt, like someone setting a dog out because it peed on the carpet. “Sorry about that,” he says, turning back to Credence. “Shiny things. The bottles must have been glinting.”

Credence is still silent. Newt turns over the stories he’s told, belatedly wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have let Credence know the magnitude of illegality he’s dabbling in. It’s not Credence he doesn’t trust, but he doubts Graves would experience the same enrapturement.

“It’s different - the Nundu,” Credence mumbles. “She can choose not to attack. I can’t. So everyone’s in danger, all the time. And maybe if I was strong, it wouldn’t be like that - maybe if I was better. But I’m not. If I was brave, I’d turn myself in, but I’m not brave either.”

Newt settles in front of him again. “How did you and Mr. Graves meet?”

“He - he took a pamphlet. I was handing out pamphlets, for church. Ma’s church. And he said he was interested. In me. Said he could help me.” Bereft of a fuzzy animal to hug, Credence wraps his arms around himself. “This was before Ma died. He said he’d make arrangements to get me out, and he gave me his blood to help the hunger pains. Then after Ma died, I came to live with him. He takes care of me.”

Credence’s illness makes sudden, horrible sense.

 _He gave me his blood to help._ Newt knows enough about vampires to understand the sinister intent lurking behind those words, even if Credence doesn’t. Vampire blood is poisonous to other vampires. Human blood taken directly from the vein is best to sate an appetite - bereft of that, packaged human blood or animal blood from the vein works as a substitute. Packaged animal blood or blood harvested from meat is the least appealing alternative. But vampire blood is worse than nothing. It has the same effect as a human drinking salt water to stave off dehydration - temporary relief followed by symptoms growing much, much worse.

 _I bet you didn’t kill until he started feeding you,_ Newt thinks, but there’s no way to ask that. No way to explain the situation to Credence when the boy has his faith knotted up in Graves and Newt’s no more than an entitled wizard. Credence won’t believe him. Credence won’t believe him, and certainly a lifetime of starvation can’t have helped - starving followed by poisoning, it’s no wonder Credence has no control. Graves is _torturing_ him.

There’s no way Graves doesn’t _know._ Even if he hadn’t to begin with, surely he would have figured it out when Credence’s bloodlust only grew, but how is Newt meant to untangle any of this when he can barely speak without making Credence lash out?

“You’re upset.” Credence laughs, ragged and awful, misinterpreting the horror on Newt’s face. “All these things I’ve told you, everything I am, and you’re upset because I’m close to Mr. Graves.”

“It’s not that.” Newt pushes a hand through his hair, a few strands coming out between his fingers. “It’s - do you think you could do me a favor, Credence?”

Credence’s eyes narrow. “What kind of favor?”

“I ask as a scientist more than anything else. I’m trying to learn more about your sickness.” Newt opens his hands. “Do you think you could avoid feeding on Mr. Graves for now? I have enough blood in both cold storage and my veins to sate you. If you’ll allow me a few minutes, I can mix potions for both of us - me for anemia, you for your appetite. Like medicine.”

Credence turns his face away. “You won’t have enough blood.”

“I think I will. Believe me, creatures who drink blood are usually larger than you. I have plenty.”

“Why don’t you want me to feed on Mr. Graves?”

Newt slides away from a full lie with a shade of the truth. “I’d like to see whether your control is any better with a fully human diet.”

“He’ll know something’s wrong with me. If I don’t feed.”

“If you absolutely must, take less than you usually do. Please?” Newt leans forward, earnest. “For the data’s sake.”

Credence gives him one of those long, unreadable looks. Then he jerks a hand to point at the bottle pile. “Make your potions,” he says. “If you were going to poison me, you would have used your Nundu.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just when u thought graves couldn't be a worse person

Credence loses track of time as he watches Newt mix his potions. The wizard is the most peculiar human he’s ever met, magic or not. He studies all of Newt’s mannerisms, little fidgets, the way he mutters to himself under his breath - half-remembered rhymes for recipes and the occasional wizard curse word. It’s hard to decide what he thinks of Newt, because he's _fairly_ sure he doesn't hate him. The most concrete emotion he can settle on is abject exasperation. As long as Newt keeps looking at Credence with his own brand of half-condescending exasperation, Credence reserves the right to do the same for him.

He doesn’t want Newt to die. He could have rationalized a wizard who spat or threatened or put up bravado. He might even have been able to rationalize someone too frightened to remember their own name. It doesn’t say too many good things about him as a person, he thinks, that apparently someone has to go against all human odds of kindness before he’ll like them, but he’s had enough of self loathing for the day.

He has to let Newt go.

This seems imperative. Credence will talk to Mr. Graves and say they made a mistake, and Mr. Graves can do the memory magic to make Newt forget about their encounter, and they’ll let him go on his merry way, and everything will be fine. Maybe he’ll get Newt to write down his potion recipes, if they work. It won’t be giving Newt everything he wants - he won’t have the research he seems determined to collect - but he won’t be dead. And then they’ll - they’ll get another wizard, or Credence will convince Mr. Graves they don’t really need to keep humans when Mr. Graves can do memory magic. He’ll convince Mr. Graves there are other ways to feed, antiquated vampire means be damned, and he’ll get better control, and everything will be -

-everything will be fine.

By the time he rationalizes through all this, Newt is swigging the contents from a small bottle, offering a second bottle to Credence. Credence should ask him to taste it first, but if Newt does decide to hurt him, he’s probably clever enough to make poison that hurts vampires more than humans. Newt _could_ sic any number of the animals in here on him. Credence is a little tired of being contrary, so he takes the bottle and drains the contents without protest.

They don’t taste like much of anything. He sniffs the air, but any effect the potion has will probably take time to set in. It’ll work like Newt said, or it won’t. He climbs off the bottom step and allows Newt up the stairs, following him as he disappears back into the dank cell.

For a moment between clambering out and his eyes adjusting, he’s sure they’ve spent too much time inside, that Mr. Graves will be waiting. But there’s no sign or scent of the other man. Credence carefully latches the case and tucks it under his arm.

“I’m,” he starts, and falters. Swallows. “I’m going to try to get Mr. Graves to let you go. So you can take Frank to Arizona.”

Newt frowns. Credence expects him to ask why, because that’s what he’d want to know - his mind immediately jumps to suspicion. But instead Newt says, “Why don’t you come with me? If you come too, there’s no need to ask for Mr. Graves’ permission.”

Credence shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Newt’s face falls, and Credence’s chest squeezes. “Give me a few more days, then,” he says. “To try to help you. Please. I’d rather we didn’t part ways yet.”

“You _want_ to be in this cell?”

“I mean, not permanently. But for a few more days.” A shadow passes over Newt’s face. “I don’t trust Mr. Graves, Credence. I hope you’ll forgive me that.”

“I think he’ll let you go if I want it badly enough.”

“Please, Credence.” Newt half-reaches toward him, then lets his hand drop. “A few more days. If there’s no change in your condition, and you still want to release me, you have my full permission to ask Mr. Graves. But let me try to help first.”

Trying to work out the way Newt’s mind works is going to give Credence a headache, so he lets the absurdity of this notion go, since he’s beginning to realize conversations with Newt require accepting a certain degree of absurdity. He’d be lying if he said the idea of treating his illness has no appeal. He’s just not sure he’ll be strong enough to let Newt go if Newt actually does make him better.

He shoves the thoughts out of his head and locks the cell, carrying the case back up to the kitchen. Mr. Graves has just arrived home - the door is still open and he’s in the process of shrugging off his coat when Credence sets the case down in the corner.

Credence opens his mouth to say _I need to talk to you_ , but Mr. Graves speaks first. “We have a problem.”

Credence swallows back his words, fights mounting dread. “What’s wrong?”

“The witch I mentioned, the one wondering about you. She’s trying to locate you.” Mr. Graves sighs, peeling off his gloves and tucking them in his hung-up coat pocket, and then he closes the building door. “I tried to warn her off it, but she’s determined.”

Credence goes very cold inside. He pulls a chair out from the dining room table and sinks into it, staring down at his scarred hands. It’s hard to put words to this, the nebulous fear rising in him - it growls like the monster, sickens like hunger, makes his body tremble. There’s a lot more to worry about than Newt, and for a moment he’d forgotten it - forgotten legions of wizards pulling the city apart to find him, Mr. Graves keeping them off his trail as well as he’s able. He bites his bottom lip.

“I think,” Mr. Graves says, softer, gentler, “you need to hunt.”

Credence doesn’t look up from his hands. The wizards will tear him apart, inflict worse wounds than his scars. He’s safest tucked here in the house, in the shadows, where no one can see him. Other people are safest with him tucked here.

“If I give you her scent,” Mr. Graves says, moving over to sit across from Credence, “you should be able to find her.”

“I don’t - I don't have magic.” Credence casts through his mind, searching for a way to protest without sounding like he’s protesting, since Mr. Graves doesn’t have nearly the same patience for arguments that Newt does. “If she sees me coming, she’ll kill me.”

“Has anyone else you’ve attacked seen you coming?”

“They didn’t have magic.”

“Credence.” Mr. Graves says his name sternly, with the kind of calm authority that always gets him what he wants. “If it’s not her, it’ll be someone innocent. We both know this. Isn’t it better to hunt someone who threatens you?”

That’s not the question he’s asking, not really. Credence hears the real question and his stomach turns over. _Aren’t things better now that you’ve killed your mother?_

“What’s she like? The witch?”

“Obnoxious, arrogant, stubborn. Insignificant. There’s been a million like her, and there will be a million more.” Age opens between them. Humans don’t matter so much to Mr. Graves when he’s lived so many lifetimes. Credence is trying to figure out what to say, and then Mr. Graves adds, “You reek of wizard.”

Credence swallows. That’s one way to bring up Newt, he supposes. “I was helping him feed his animals. You said I could do that.”

“And he’s still alive.”

“Yes.” Credence frowns at his folded hands; something in Mr. Graves’ voice makes him feel like a scolded child, and he doesn’t like it. “I think we should maybe - we should maybe let him go.”

There’s a few seconds of deadly calm.

“Let him go,” Mr. Graves repeats.

“We could do it,” Credence insists. “I don’t think he’s as bad as the others. He just wants to study his animals. You’re a wizard, too - if you make him forget he was here, he can leave the city, he’s not planning to stay, so-”

“My dear boy.” Mr. Graves stands up, his voice perfectly controlled, but his eyes glitter in the light. Credence steals one glance up, finds a predator. Cringes, looks back down. It’s like waiting for the first lash to fall, or maybe like stepping forward and finding no ground underneath you, because at least with lashes he knows what to expect from the pain.

“My dear boy,” Mr. Graves repeats, walking around the table, each of his footfalls ringing finality in Credence’s ears, “he’s using you.”

Credence shakes his head. “He’s kind.”

“He is manipulative.” Mr. Graves takes Credence’s face in his hands, tilting his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. “You are pathetic and damaged. Anyone with eyes can see that. He’s using you to escape.”

Something nameless takes shape in Credence’s chest. It’s not guilt, doesn’t have the same need to look away. Not fear, doesn’t have the same need to shrink back. It’s like the growling of the monster inside him rising to a dull roar, making his ears ring. Not like the edge of control, something - something -

 _Defiance._ That’s it, isn’t it? Credence narrows his eyes and watches Mr. Graves’ face twist and says, “I don’t care.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t care if he’s using me. He was kind to me. I don’t want him to die.”

Mr. Graves’ lip curls, his teeth bared, a snarl that teeters between human and animal. He’s having trouble keeping his face composed. Newt - what would Newt do in this situation? Back away, maybe, give Credence space to calm himself down. Ask what Credence is thinking. Mumble something self-deprecating about boundaries. Newt wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place, because Newt wouldn’t want to kill anyone. Not without really, really good reason.

The feeling swells in Credence’s chest like a tide, a dam overflowing. He doesn’t know where to funnel the energy without the pull to hunt, so he just does what seems natural and reaches up, curling his fingers tightly around Mr. Graves’ wrist.

Mr. Graves releases his face, turns away, his own expression shadowed. His shoulders are made of tension. “You and I will discuss this later,” he says, and he’s ice, but Credence wants Newt’s warmth more than he wants to will away that cold. “Right now, you need to hunt. This is an emergency.”

Credence breathes hard, splays a hand over his own chest. He should want to hunt. This is the kind of roiling emotional turmoil that always wakes the monster, except now it’s different, like he’s just _feeling_ without this nameless otherness ripping away his control. The potion, he realizes suddenly - the potion Newt made to stave off his appetite, it’s helping, Newt didn’t lie.

He can get _better._

The last defenses crumble away inside him. He draws himself to his feet, shaking with anger and freedom and unspent adrenaline. 

“I don’t think I want to, Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves turns back, the motion so slow it seems to play at half speed. Credence notes, in an idle sort of way, that he’s schooled his expression into calm again. Credence notes the few feet between them, and he thinks he should try to explain again, and then he thinks, _I don’t care._

He’s ready for Mr. Graves to attack him. He expects vampire ferocity, snapping teeth, their limbs tangling as they savage each other on the pristine tiles. He’s prepared for that kind of animalistic fight.

He’s not prepared for Mr. Graves to draw his wand. In the space between seeing and understanding, his eyes widen. The right answer is to knock it out of his hand, because there’s no way to run or hide from the magic, but Credence has spent too much of his life making himself small. By the time his brain processes that he needs to leap forward rather than shrinking back, Mr. Graves is already moving. The wand cleaves the air like a blade.

“ _Imperio._ ”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> credence finds tina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story probably could have gotten a lot longer and more complex, but i don't have the stamina to take on another huge project, so we're wrapping it up

In the end, Tina and Queenie don’t have to search for Credence, because he comes to them.

All things considered, this is probably a good thing. Tina’s best idea thus far has been to search for Credence in Percival Graves’ house, which is sure to be warded and enchanted with spells so old they’ve gone out of fashion. For all she knows, trying to bring them down would send the building itself crumbling. She’s going over a city map with Queenie, outlining haunts she may have missed so she can procrastinate the only viable answer, when the protection wards around their apartment shiver.

“Something’s outside,” Queenie says.

The doorknob rattles, and then something very large and very solid slams against the wood.

“Any Dark wizards after you right now, Teenie? Besides the obvious?”

Tina shakes her head.

“Well,” Queenie says, as though that settles that. “I guess we’d better see who it is.”

Tina draws her wand and creeps toward the door just as it buckles again, the force of the impact shivering plaster off the walls. The lights flicker. If he tries to tear through their protection spells, Credence will probably die. There are a million reasons that isn’t ideal, not the least of which is that Tina wants to help him, so she raises her wand and opens the door. Graves would use means more subtle to enter the apartment; it must be Credence.

Credence slams into her before she can so much as react. Her back hits the wall. Her spine shivers. The door yawns open behind him. A glitter of black eyes, a flash of gleaming teeth - Tina twists into his grip. It’s not the direction he expects, so his teeth meet in her shoulder rather than her neck. Needle-sharp pinpricks reverberate through her skin.

The vampire draws back, mouth painted with her blood, and that’s just enough time for Queenie to shout, “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

Credence snaps into rigidity. Falls backward like a stone.

“Ooh, that’s going to hurt in the morning,” Queenie says with a wince. For a moment, Tina thinks she’s referring to the oozing bite mark, and then realizes she means the cracking sound Credence’s head made when it hit the floor.

Tina presses one hand to her shoulder, flicks the door closed with a wave of her wand. “I guess this technically makes things less complicated,” she says.

“He’s Imperiused.” Queenie crouches beside Credence’s prone form. “I’m going to let you up, honey, but we have to un-curse you first. Stop thinking murder thoughts at me.”

“Ah.” The Imperius curse brings a lot of things into stark perspective. Tina’s Auror training involved a rigorous seminar on how to break the curse, but it involves a startling amount of willpower, and ‘strong-willed’ isn’t an adjective she’s sure anyone would ever use to describe Credence. He’s fragile, and traumatized, and the look in his eyes is somewhere between fear and rage, but it’s also distant. Like he’s watching from behind a curtain.

Graves might not be far behind him. They need to work fast.

“What do we do?” Tina hisses at Queenie, meaning, _how do we get an immobilized vampire somewhere safe without anyone noticing?_

Queenie closes her eyes, a little furrow appearing between her brows, the way it does when she uses her Legilimency on purpose. “Talk to him, Tina. Under the curse he remembers you. I think you can pull him out of it.”

So Tina takes Credence’s paralyzed hand in hers - uncertain whether that’ll make his hunger worse, but figuring it’s too late to pull away once she’s done it - and speaks quietly to him. She tries to keep the urgency out of her voice, though Queenie’s better at calm than she is, waving her wand at Tina’s bite mark and murmuring incantations to close the wounds.

Tina tells him about how sorry she is that she didn’t get him away from his foster mother, about how hard she tried to get people to listen to her, about the suspension. She tells him that she’d like to help him now, and she’s been trying to figure out how, and if he’ll let her, she’s as willing as she’s ever been. She tells him he should never have been starved and that if she has any say in it, he’ll never starve again. She tells him about why she became an Auror in the first place, about wanting to ensure justice for people, about the frustration of failure. It’s a lot of words very quickly, because she doesn’t know what will get through to him, and somewhere in the city Graves knows Credence is here, and there's no time, there's no time.

There aren’t physical cues with Credence paralyzed. Tina takes cues from Queenie instead, the little nods or shakes of her head to indicate whether she’s helping. Eventually Queenie says, “All right, I think you’re as back as you’re going to be,” and waves her wand with the countercurse, and Credence sits up. Tina tenses, preparing for an attack, but he just wraps his arms around his knees.

“Ms. Goldstein,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would be you.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Tina stands. “We need to get you somewhere safe, though. Somewhere Graves won’t think to look. You’re a witness - you need protection. Once you’re safe, we can talk.”

Credence swallows.

“I know just the place.” Queenie claps her hands. “Tina, how would you feel about meeting-”

“He’s a _No-Maj_ -”

“Exactly why we won’t be found there!”

Tina makes a noise akin to a dying walrus, but she doesn’t have any better suggestions.

Credence clears his throat, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall so he doesn’t have to look at either of them. “Ms. Goldstein,” he says, breaking, “Mr. Graves has a wizard captive in his house. I think he’s going to kill him.”

\---

There’s no protocol for what to do when the Director of Magical Security is implicated in the biggest Dark working anyone’s seen in New York City to date, you’re suspended from your job, and a foreign wizard may be dying or dead. Tina opts to pretend she’s still an Auror, since that gives her jurisdiction to break into Graves’ house. Time is of the essence. She gathers as much information as she can from Credence, and then she shepherds him off with Queenie, who wants to accompany her but acknowledges Credence needs protection too. Sending an urgent note to Seraphina Picquery - _I need backup at the Graves residence because..._ \- she grabs her wand and darts into the evening.

She doesn’t dare try to break into the house itself. No doubt the protections on it would shear her in half. But according to Credence, the makeshift dungeon underneath the building was built after the initial work, and the protections are created to keep wizards _in_ rather than keeping other people _out_. She’ll have to trust in that when a life is on the line. There’s no time. There’s no telling how deeply the conspiracy spreads. Whatever Graves is planning is coming to fruition tonight -

She finds her way by the sewers, at the very least able to cast a liquid repellent charm to keep her body and clothes from being doused in who knows what. The time for subtlety has passed, so as soon as she’s certain she’s underneath the building, she rips a chunk out of the stone above her. For a moment, she holds her breath. Her magic won’t save her from the entire structure collapsing on top of her. But only a small hole is created, enough for her to shimmy up into darkness.

She finds herself in a stone hallway, dampness oozing from the walls. Very quickly, she understands why she hasn’t been discovered immediately - Graves is too busy shouting to pay attention to part of his floor caving in. His voice rises from somewhere out of sight, down the dimly lit hall.

“- made - things - difficult!” Tina makes out. He says it like someone else might say ‘You killed my brother’ or ‘You ate my firstborn.’

“Lumos,” Tina whispers, light flaring just enough so she won’t lose her footing. Then, quickly, as the voice falters, “Nox.”

The corridor plunges back into darkness.

“Who’s there?” Graves barks. “I am the Director of Magical Security for MACUSA-”

A different voice, weak, croaking, but unmistakably alive: “He’s not very good at his job.”

Tina breathes a small sigh of relief; part of her had been certain she’d be too late, find yet another corpse sprawled at an unnatural angle. It’s not time to celebrate yet, though. She’s still in the thick of things. Graves is a vampire - no matter how silent she makes her footfalls, he’ll hear them, unless she uses a Silencing Charm. He’s certainly heard her whispered incantation. She breaks into a run and takes aim into the cell with her wand.

“Expelliarmus!” Graves calls. The wand twitches in her grasp, wrenching her arm forward. It’s all she can do to hang on. Grip slippery and loose, she pulls back, her heart a pounding riot in her ears.

“Stupefy!” she yells, but Graves moves before the jet of red light can reach him.

“Cru-” Graves starts, and Tina’s whole body tenses up in preparation for the curse, but then he cuts off with a muffled grunt. A dark shape inside the cell has hurled itself into his side, knocked him off balance.

Graves staggers, and Tina takes advantage of the moment to reorient her wand grip. “Stupefy!” she yells again, and this time the light hits Graves square in the chest. He crumples.

The other occupant of the cell groans quietly, a heap on the ground where he fell after unbalancing Graves. Tina lights the end of her wand, wary of stepping inside for fear she won’t be able to leave. “I’m an Auror with MACUSA,” she says, studying the wizard’s freckled face. “Backup should be arriving soon. Are you injured?”

“I’m, ah.” He’s holding his arm in a way that makes her suspect injury. “I’m all right.”

“Can you walk?”

“Ah. That is an excellent question. I’m not certain I - yes, I think I may have used up the last of my strength tackling him. I apologize.”

Something metallic is in the air, different from the rust in the cell - blood. Enough blood for her to smell with her human nose. “Where are you hurt?”

“Really, I’ve had worse.” He scoots forward, and Tina rips the door from its hinges with her wand, sick of trying to minimize damages. She’d warn the wizard about potential warding curses, but he’s so pale he looks half dead, and - that dark spreading stain on his sleeve. The wizard crosses the threshold of the cell without falling. His palm, where it grips his forearm, is slick with red.

“Let me see.”

“It’s all right,” the wizard says faintly. “A few bites, a few curses, nothing I can’t - goodness, this ground isn’t flat. Did you notice the ground isn’t flat?”

The ground is definitely flat.

Tina squats down to get on his level, tugging his arm away from his chest. A row of deep bite marks mar the skin, traveling from his wrist to the crease of his elbow, pulsing blood. The wizard squints at it with the comprehension of an elementary schooler attempting complex algebra.

Then, with a sudden clarity she hadn’t expected, he fixes his gaze on Tina. “There’s a suitcase upstairs that belongs to me. Make sure it reaches my brother. And there’s a vampire boy - innocent in all of this. Help him. It’s not his fault.”

His eyes roll up, and he collapses forward.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> credence barebone gets a hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY WE HAVE THE PROMISED HUG FROM SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T SUCK  
> that's a wrap!! ty for sticking along for the ride guys. it's Possible i might write more in this verse at some point, but this story is wrapped up  
> all your comments have been so so so appreciated and i will try to respond to each of them individually but if i don't manage it just know that i'm very appreciative of everyone who's read and enjoyed this story ty for making this fandom such an enjoyable one!!

The story comes out in bits and pieces over time and varying interrogation sessions:

Percival Graves never existed. Gondulphus Graves did, and does - one of the founding American wizards, cropping up throughout history to pretend to belong to a lineage that isn’t real. Percival Graves, his current iteration and standing.

The plan: chaos. Had everything been executed precisely, there would have been an uproar between the American and international magical communities, magical part-humans and wizards, No-Majs and wizards. The President would have needed to step down. Graves almost certainly would have succeeded her. The most powerful wizard in America, reigning during a time when so much political chaos was occurring that he’d never need to relinquish that power, Congress or no Congress.

Credence Barebone was the means, an easily scapegoated vampire boy. Newt Scamander, a necessary sacrifice. Graves needed a foreign born wizard to die at American hands to ruin international relations. Tina Goldstein, a pawn. She’d either be felled by Credence and spark renewed unrest between wizards and creatures, or she’d arrest Credence and scapegoat him for the killings. Queenie Goldstein, insurance. A way to keep Tina in line, a witch to push the killings off on should Credence’s involvement not explain enough. Who would believe Credence if he told the truth? Who would believe Queenie, an unregistered Legilimens, was saying anything but what they wanted to hear? And the No-Maj unrest threatening the Statute of Secrecy. Credence, should he survive the encounters without being arrested, would make a fine weapon.

Graves had planned for a thousand variables to fall a thousand different ways and expected them all to stack in his favor. The end result would be the same - him at the head of MACUSA, overseeing the end of the world as wizardkind knew it. He’d taken risks by staying in the public eye long enough to become Director of Magical Security. He’d bided his time until he had all the factors in place. And yet he’d slipped when he relied on Credence’s bloodlust, when he underestimated the stubborn determination of the Goldsteins, when he overlooked Newt Scamander’s kindness.

Newt Scamander, despite the number of injuries he’d sustained and the amount of vampire venom coursing through his veins, is recovering well. He tells MACUSA all he knows from the comfort of a hospital bed, and they give him a complimentary train ticket to use when he's well again, so he doesn't even have to go through the social song and dance. The contents of his case remain a mystery. Tina, squinting at its one rattling latch, merely tells him, "I don't want to know."

Queenie Goldstein, suddenly an asset to the Aurors considering her particular skills, helps with the interrogations and cleanup. There are a lot of things that can be believed about her, but her being a Dark wizard responsible for dozens of murders is not one.

Tina Goldstein, reinstated Auror, helping to unravel the threads of mess. And…

“Credence Barebone,” Seraphina Picquery says, holding a file out to Tina. Her posture says, _You are not in trouble, and this is not an interrogation, but it could be very quickly._ “You know where he is, don’t you?”

Tina takes a gamble. “Yes,” she says, because the President has had enough headache for a lifetime, “but any attacks he was responsible for happened under the influence of the Imperius curse. All the ethical complications of a trial - well. That’s a headache for you, and I don’t feel comfortable disclosing his location until I have a guarantee of his safety.”

The President gives her a withering look. “Get him out of the country, Ms. Goldstein, or you and I will be having a very different conversation.”

“That,” Tina says, smiling, “I can manage.”

\---

It’s hard to comprehend how completely Credence’s life has changed in just a few weeks. For one thing, he's met more kind people in the past month than he has in his entire life. The No-Maj who owns the bakery he hides in had given him a nonplussed look and asked, "Are those fangs?" Then, when Credence had clapped a hand over his mouth in horror and Queenie murmured something soft in Jacob's ear, he shook his head, shrugged one shoulder, and said, "Can you eat pastries? You look like you could use a pastry."

From church to Mr. Graves' house to a bakery with sweets Credence has never even _heard_ of, and then, when Tina eventually comes to collect him, to Newt's case. 

("Would you rather stay in the bakery? We can make arrangements-" 

"Does Newt want me?"

"I... yes, I think so." 

"Then I know where I want to be.")

When Credence tries to take it all in, all of the changes, his head starts to hurt and his ears buzz. His betrayal of Mr. Graves is a dull wound inside him, and all of this kindness feels like a disproportionate reward for bad behavior, but worse is Mr. Graves’ betrayal of _him._ And the Goldsteins are surely just protecting him, because he has no idea how many of the attacks he did himself versus how many were because he was cursed, and he’s not sure he’s ever going to know. He gets dizzy picking it apart.

Fortunately, there’s a lot to do in Newt’s case. He’s becoming acquainted with the animals, the ones who will trust a vampire, anyway. The ones who don’t trust him yet are slowly warming up to him, and he’s warming up to them. Discharged from the hospital, still shaky on his feet but not fully tripping, Newt rambles for a long time - his writing, different countries to visit, the places Credence might want to shape his future, the paths he might take. That kind of conversation makes him dizzy all over again, so Newt switches to easier topics: how to care for the animals, what each of them are called, where they come from. Credence knows he should be considering his future, but whenever he considers the prospect of leaving, all he can think is that he’d like to be one of Newt’s creatures forever if that means Newt keeps showing him this kindness.

\---

There’s something tight and small about Credence. It’s the way he looked hunched over on the steps after yelling at Newt, something that recalls tiny corners and harsh words and misery. Newt knows by his posture when something’s wrong, and this - shoulders folded, elbows tucked in, head ducked, eyes downcast - is a bad sign. Gently, he rests a hand on Credence’s shoulder, privately relieved when he doesn’t flinch.

“What’s on your mind?” Newt asks.

Credence swallows. “Mr. Graves was evil because he was a vampire, wasn’t he?”

He says it more like a statement than a question, like every piece of it is absolute. Newt isn’t sure which part he’s meant to be refuting - the existence of evil, or the cause of it?  
Rather than blunder through a half-formed opinion that’ll only make things worse, he admits, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“If he wasn’t a vampire,” Credence says, more used to the way Newt sometimes needs things reworded now, “he wouldn’t have been evil.”

Newt shakes his head, squeezes Credence’s shoulder. “I think, if we’re going to get into all the root causes of why people do the things they do,” he says, “Mr. Graves being an entitled wizard had _far_ more to do with his actions than his vampirism.”

“But maybe if vampires weren’t treated badly by wizards, he wouldn’t have wanted to do all the things he did.”

“And maybe if wizards weren’t taught we ought to own the whole world, he wouldn’t have been so invested in power.”

Credence loosens a little, leaning his head against Newt, his eyes closed. “I don’t know how to be a good person,” he confesses, soft. “There are so many awful things inside me and I never know how many are _me._ I don’t want to be a bad person. I don’t know _how._ ”

“Oh, Credence.” Because Credence is relaxing in inches, Newt feels comfortable enough to bring the hand around his shoulders up to ruffle his hair instead. He’s rewarded by Credence turning fully, tucking himself against Newt’s chest. Newt hugs him tightly.

“I don’t think good or bad is something anyone _is_ , inherently,” Newt says, nosing into his hair. “It’s something you do.”

Credence breathes softly against his collarbone, and Newt marvels at the change in him, because the boy he’d first met would never be able to keep this close without biting. “I don’t know how to do good, then.”

“I think your instincts are better than you give them credit for. You aren’t malicious, and you’re willing to learn, and both of those things go a very long way.”

Credence keeps breathing, air fanning against Newt’s skin. His arms go around Newt slowly, fingers twisting up in his shirt, like he’s not sure this is a contact he’s allowed. Newt grips him tighter.

“I think,” Credence says, “if I was going to choose a person to be, I’d want to be someone like you.”

Newt cannot comprehend anyone _ever_ wanting to be him. Him, with his awkward stumbling over conversations, his inability to make eye contact, his academic mediocrity, his strange habits. Him, with his penchant for messing things up and putting people in danger, his million character flaws, his quiet little whispers of self loathing.

He doesn’t say that, though. He lets companionable silence open between them, and he thinks about what Credence needs, and where he’s come from, and how much shining light is still inside him. And he kisses Credence’s forehead and squeezes him around the middle and says, “I hope I can preserve your impression of me.”

“No pressure,” Credence says, and then impossibly, delightfully, he laughs.

Newt’s heart is suddenly a million times lighter.

All in all, he thinks, a few extra days in New York City were the good sort of detour.

**Author's Note:**

> vulpis: i promise there will Be A Happy Ending for credence because i would rather rip my own beating heart out of my chest than give him a sad ending


End file.
